


Rebirth

by TheWritingSquid



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dadgil, Demon Resurrection Lore Entirely Made Up, Dissociation, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff & Angst, Gen, Old man learns the internet, PTSD, Post-DMC5, Two OCs in Nero's Orphans, Vergil May Cry, Wild Yamato Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2020-01-15 00:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 159,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18487135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid
Summary: When Vergil returns to the human world with his ever-infuriating brother, he discovers how much he's yet to learn. From the meaning of "touchscreen" to how one even begins to be a father, this new life has its share of challenges to face. Yet as he tries to build a new future for himself, he finds out that his past is never far behind.--A mix of epic action storyline and That Good Domestic Shit with most of the DMC cast ~





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> If you're coming for some Big Vergil Feels and a slow dive into DMC lore and worldbuilding, you're at the right place! I have a solid buffer, too, so expect regular updates!

Vergil wished severing the Qliphoth roots had taken longer, that his presence in Hell with Dante had been prolonged. He didn’t mind the place, the demons constantly attacking, the absence of days and nights, how hunger and sleepiness vanished and time distorted into a blur. He liked it there--he could fight Dante endlessly, counting hits, bending his mind towards nothing but their rivalry and his lifelong struggle to dominate. One up. Even. One down. Even again. On and on they went, fighting restlessly.

He could forget the constant pain drilling in his mind and body as it had rebuilt in the depths of Hell, where all demons regenerated and where he’d fought Mundus’ corruption every step of the way.

He could forget V’s memories, slippery as they were, sometimes hot and vivid, sometimes faint echoes.

He could forget Nero’s existence, his power, his desire and demand for them to stop fighting, stop killing each other.

He could try, anyway. None of it ever really disappeared.

Still. He had been better at keeping them at bay as the Yamato and the Devil Sword clashed together in a flurry of strikes and parries, the rapid-fire rhythm of their battles a music filling Vergil’s mind and chasing away everything. He knew this--the battle, how to move within it, to lose himself into the steps, the bursts of devil power, the quick rush of victory as Yamato slid past Dante’s defenses. The spike of frustration when Dante caught him off-guard. It was familiar-- grounding--and Vergil would have kept going forever and enjoyed himself immensely if, after another headlong clash that forced them both to jump backward, Dante hadn’t thrown his sword over his shoulder and declared, “I’m bored. Let’s get dinner instead.”

Vergil straightened slowly, his fingers burning from catching himself in a long slide. How could Dante be bored? No one else fought like they did--or almost no one, a small voice reminded him. But he didn’t want to think of Nero. “Don’t mock me, Dante. We finally have all the time in the world to settle this.” He lifted Yamato and fell back into a fighting stance. “You cannot quit without a three-point headway. Those are our rules of engagement.”

Dante laughed, then, and let the Devil Sword vanish into thin air. “That'd never end, and I'm craving some pizza.” He spread his arms as he started walking backward, away from Vergil and their fighting area. “Sorry, brother, but my entire life doesn't revolve around kicking your ass.”

The words _neither does mine_ formed in his mind and immediately died there. Vergil’s fingers tightened around the Yamato. Dante couldn't stop. Not like this, without a clear winner. When Dante turned his back on him, something jolted through Vergil.

“Then you forfeit,” he declared, ice calm and smug, hoping Dante wasn't listening hard enough to hear the slight crack at the end. He didn't want Dante to forfeit; he wanted him to lose.

Dante cocked his head to the side, a sure sign he'd heard him. Vergil tensed, readying himself. Any moment now, Dante would spring back into an attack, Devil Sword in hand. Just. Any moment… now… “Have you ever had Fredi’s strawberry sundae, Vergil?” Dante asked. “They really give you a new perspective on life. You should try it.”

And he walked off, leaving Vergil hanging, Yamato poised to fight, his entire mind focused on a first parry that would never happen. Dante had almost jumped off their flat knot of Qliphoth roots by the time Vergil accepted he wouldn't turn around. He really _was_ quitting, even if only for now. The Yamato's tip touched the ground as he let it droop.

“Dante.”

He'd meant to call out, but instead the name emerged rough and cracked, as if stripped from any strength and smoothness. Dante either didn't hear or ignore it. He leaped off, leaving Vergil alone.

Again.

Vergil didn’t move, disbelief creeping through him. Dante wouldn't walk out on him. They never backed down on a fight--never! No one was interfering, so he had no reason to quit. Why would he? He stayed put, as rooted as the remnants of Qliphoth beneath his feet, his grip ever-tighter on the Yamato. Dante wished to return to the human world, to _Devil May Cry_ , demon hunting, and … and Nero. _A life outside of kicking your ass._ Vergil stared at the empty spot where Dante had stood, unable to bring himself to follow. How pointless would such an endeavour be? He had no desire to waste time with human futilities and integrate their pitiful lives. None at all.

Vergil stood in the middle of the Qliphoth platform, chin raised and Yamato in hand. His eyes hadn’t moved from Dante’s now empty spot. His stomach had tightened, his palms grown sweaty, his heart sped up. In an instant of unusual clarity, Vergil put a name on the feeling welling inside of him: fear.

He scoffed at himself, smirked, and sprinted after his brother.

****  
###** **

****

Dante stared at the beautiful _Devil May Cry_ neon sign above his home, and a line of knots unwound along his shoulders. Home. For all that he often left days or months at a time, Dante loved the wide, spare space he called a house and office, with its peculiar smell of stale-air-and-pizza and the jittering, oft-repaired jukebox. He couldn’t wait to spread out in his sofa and put some goddamn music on. The sounds of Hell--whispers of demons, the strange squish of blood-filled Qliphoth, the repeated clang of swords clashing in repeated fights--those had grown boring. He missed the rhythms of rock, played by others or by his own hand.

So he’d returned. Nothing had _trapped_ him in Hell except his endless duels with Vergil. And man, how _fun_ those had been for a while. Just the two of them, strikes, parries, and taunts, without the fate of the world in their balance. Dante had burned through so much pent-up frustration, he might never be angry again! Except, most assuredly, at Vergil. Vergil would always draw the deepest, most powerful emotions out of him, from love and hatred both. That motherfucker had imprinted himself on Dante’s heart and stabbed it through several times over. And yet, and yet…

Vergil stood three steps behind Dante, hood pulled over his head, a hand on the Yamato’s pommel. Brooding. He hadn’t said much since they’d reached the human world, collapsing back into himself and withholding the slicing remarks that had sprinkled their time in Hell, the casual, deadly humour lodging itself into Dante’s soul and warming it. Damn, but he could be funny when he wasn’t moralizing about true power!

“Well, here we are. Welcome to your new home.”

He strode forward, set his hands against the double doors, and shoved them inward. Vergil's only response was a pensive _hmm_ , but he followed Dante into the dump he'd proudly called home for thirty years. The wooden desk, old rotary phone, and multiple artificial house plants welcomed him inside, as did the wacky motifs of the wallpaper that he’d never gone around to change, and which had grown on him. Yet while his furniture remained unchanged, Dante didn't miss the signs of temporary occupancy: the half-finished pool game, the new magazines on top of the one he'd been reading, the handful of strewn white jacket near the couch, and the fact the lights turned on at all when he flicked them up. Someone had kept coming here, using _Devil May Cry_ 's office, and he thought he knew who: the magazine was all about big guns, and the jacket looked like Lady's. Dante half laughed, half sighed.

“That shark will have put all the maintenance bills on my debt.”

“You still owe money?” Vergil had stayed near the door, hovering there. “I thought I cleared those when I hired you.”

Dante laughed at that. “No one's ever clear of a Lady's debt.”

“Ah.” The hint of a smile tugged at Vergil's lips. “I'll keep that in mind for any further dealings with her.”

Silence returned while Dante picked up the jacket and gun magazine, throwing them together in a pile for Lady's next visit. Then he vaulted over the desk, landed in the large chair, and flicked the telephone up with the tip of his toes, having it land straight into his hands. The chair espoused his ass and that? That was true home.

“I'm calling the pizza. Make yourself at home.”

Vergil swept his gaze across the room, eyebrows shooting up. “I'm expected to live here?”

“That's right, Vergil. Right where I can keep an eye on you.”

Vergil ran his hand along the length of the Yamato, then sighed. Dante stared at him, fingers hovering over the rotary phone. When they were fighting together, they fell in complete sync, sensing each other's strategies and movements. Dante knew Vergil's fighting stances as well as his own--even better, perhaps. But if he had to guess what was going on in his brother's head now? What he would do next? Hard to say. Vergil probably didn’t know either and considering Dante had spent most of his life waiting on the next job from Morrisson, he couldn't fault him. Maybe that’d be their life now: two brothers napping on couches until their agent strolled through with another demon to hunt. Dante allowed the daydream to linger then spun the dial and called for his pizza.

As the familiar ring filled Dante’s ears, Vergil advanced into the wide office. He grimaced at the posters on the wall, trailed his finger through the gathered dust, and eventually reached the pool table. He tapped the border of the table with his fingers, clearly considering a game. There was something painful in watching Vergil move through Dante’s space. How often had he imagined this in the decades since first defeating him? How often had he startled awake from a couch nap, certain he’d heard his name called, certain it had been Vergil saying it, with his specific inflexion at the end, like the name was so much more than just a name. And always, he’d opened his eyes to disappointing emptiness and the boring reality of his life.

“ _How can I help you?_ ” The girl on the phone startled him.

“Please send four large pizzas to _Devil May Cry_. All dressed, but skip the olives.”

Vergil’s head snapped up. He tilted it to the side, eyebrows raised, his entire expression a silent _really, Dante?_ that had somehow stayed the exact same since they were kids. Dante rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the spike of warmth through him. Back then, he would always give his olives to Vergil.

“On second thought,” Dante said, “keep the olives on one pizza. I have a very special guest.”

Vergil’s lips parted at the mention of ‘special guest’, but he changed his mind and didn’t add anything. A light smile hovered on them still, and he strode to the desk as Dante hung up the phone. His fingers trailed on it but he didn’t sit, still standing straight with his shoulders thrown back like their father would pass by and tell them to stop slouching the moment he relaxed.

“So _this_ is where you’ve lived for the last twenty years,” he said.

Was that meant as an insult? Dante loved his dump and wouldn’t trade it for any fancy office with big windows and whatever new-fangled tech was supposed to impress clients these days.

“Yep. Welcome to my palace, brother!” He spread his arm out and kicked his feet upon the desk. “I'm not very into big towers that destroy city landscapes, I'm afraid. You'll have to make do with the view from the roof, if you want height.”

Vergil glanced at the windows and responded with a slight shake of his head. Silence stretched again, long and awkward. Dante was debating between a nap and a quip when Vergil spoke again.

“It's… quiet.”

The tightness in his voice caught Dante off guard. Vergil pressed his lips together and tapped the desk slowly, filling the silence with a discreet cadence. He'd have expected his brother to enjoy the calm, but instead it was obviously bothering him. Too much going on in his head, huh? Dante sure had been there before.

“Now, that, I can fix for you.”

He pushed himself off the chair, striding to the old jukebox sitting in a corner. A quick punch on top brought back the neon colours and 8-bit beeps. Dante patted it and turned to Vergil.

“This here is a state of the art machine, brother, and it plays only the best music. You’re about to be blown away.”

“Allow me to express a modicum of doubts.”

“You’ll see.”

Dante leaned forward to examine his choices of songs. After a moment of indecision, he pressed the button for _Rock You Like A Hurricane_ and let the familiar beats fill his ears and wash away some of the weirdness tied to Vergil's presence here. Putting his music on, even if it was for Vergil, felt like reclaiming his space.

“So. What do you--”

He never finished the question. Vergil was holding their mother’s portrait, staring at it so intently Dante knew the rest of the world had faded away. His expression was unreadable, a blunt mask betrayed only by the subtle twitch of his right eyes--a lockdown when Dante would’ve forced a grin.

“You know …” Dante started, and Vergil’s head snapped up at the first words. He hurriedly slammed down the portrait back on the desk. Dante crossed his arms and leaned on the jukebox. “I think she’d be happy. About us being here together.”

“You think … even though I--” He stopped, but it wasn’t hard to see where those words had led.

“Dunno ‘bout that, brother. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you can apologize to it more often than I have over the years.”

Vergil became ramrod straight, like he’d needed to slam control over his body before he fought or fled. He stared at Dante, chin raised slightly, a thread of arrogance covering the shake of his voice. “What did _you_ have to apologize for?”

Ah, yes, what indeed? He, who’d found this portrait as a child while running out of their burning house but could never find his brother again. He, who’d fought with Vergil over and over, and failed to stop him from going to Hell. He, who’d had to destroy Nelo Angelo and, he’d thought, the last shreds of Vergil left in this world. And he’d been ready to do it again, atop the Qliphoth, had seen his last hopes of Vergil ever turning away from power crushed as V plunged his cane into Urizen. What did Vergil believe, exactly? That he celebrated each victory with pride? Dante rolled his eyes, stuffing his desire to shatter that illusion deep down and instead replying with a wide grin.

“Why, because you’re still an idiot.”

They were saved by the screeching of tires outside the door. Pizza, at last! Dante pushed himself off the jukebox and crossed the room to pick up the delivery. A delicious aroma emanated from the boxes, and he peeked into the first box. As soon as he spotted the olives, he flung it across the room at Vergil, boomerang-style.

“Here’s your dinner, brother, delivered with extra unwanted advice: you’re going to have a lot of time on your hands to overthink your mistakes. Naps just feel way better.”

Vergil caught the pizza box with a sharp, quick laugh. “How bold. You assume I have mistakes to overthink.”

Dante rolled his eyes and flung himself into the closest couch, popping open the top of his pizza box. He knew a dodge when he witnessed one, and he didn’t care to ask Vergil about any of this either. If they started going over the last twenty years, they’d be fighting again before the meal was over.

“What can I say? You eat your pizza with olives, and that’s all the proof I need.”

This time, Vergil’s laugh surged out loud and honest. He settled on the desk and opened the top of the pizza box. “Foolishness, Dante. Olives are excellent.”

“You’re welcome to mine the next time they forget them on.”

It would happen, sooner or later, and he usually didn’t bother to pick them out despite the acrid taste they left on the otherwise perfect pizza. For now, he intended to enjoy the delicious, greasy slices before him for the first time in months. Dante closed his eyes, setting aside all thoughts of Vergil’s new presence, and devoured his meal.


	2. Future Plans

Vergil knew Nero had stepped inside  _ Devil May Cry  _ before the young man spoke, had felt it in a slight thrumming from the Yamato, the vibration like a longing sigh. He stiffened in the couch, no longer seeing the words in front of him, in Lady’s gun magazine, his mind fighting the slight sense of betrayal at Yamato’s obvious recognition of another wielder. It didn’t do this around Dante, even though his brother had fought with it at times. Then again, it had never been inside Dante’s arm, either.

“Dante’s not here,” he said, glancing up just long enough not to be completely impolite. Nero had his long blue coat on, the collar flipped up, and judging by the specks of dirt and blood over it and in his hair, he’d been fighting demons today. “You just missed him.”

“I know. This is strawberry sundae evening.”

Vergil frowned and looked back at him. What did he mean, he knew? That made no sense. “Then why are you here?”

Nero crossed his arms and scoffed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of an asshole? I came here for you, dumbass.”

“Ah.” While that was the logical conclusion of Nero’s presence in this location, it simultaneously felt like the impossible one. Why  _ would  _ Nero come for him? “That is … unexpected.”

“Really? Start using your brain, then.”

Vergil stiffened. “My intellectual faculties are perfectly intact, thank you.”

“And yet you thought I wouldn’t want to see you.” Nero spread his arms with a smirk, and the movement was uncannily reminiscent of Dante’s demeanour. “I saved your life.”

“You saved Dante’s. I would have won.”

Nero burst out laughing, and the sound aggressively filled the room. “Keep telling yourself that. But Dante kicks my ass on a regular basis, and I kicked yours.”

Vergil leaned forward. A part of him was stunned he’d made Nero laugh and eager to repeat the experience. While he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the idea that this was his son, and his son had desired to speak with him, he knew how to handle competitive mind games. “Perhaps we ought to add your name to the scoreboard. It would allow us to settle the matter.”

“So I can crush you and leave you all in the dust?” Nero asked, and slammed his fist into his palms. For a brief moment, blue arms shimmered behind him and the Yamato thrummed by Vergil’s side. “I’m game.”

“A family competition, then,” he said, and the word ‘family’ felt heavy on his tongue, thick with a meaning he could barely grasp. “And here I thought you wanted to put an end to this sibling rivalry.”

“As long as you’re not turning each other into diced meat anymore, I’m good.”

Nero set his hand on his hip, a challenge in his voice, the promise he would run both of them to the ground if they ever fought like that again. And he could, Vergil knew. He’d witnessed first hand the sheer power Nero had wielded atop the Qliphoth. Hard to believe it was all contained in the scruffy boy before him. Hard to believe it was all in his son. Vergil ran his hand along the Yamato’s scabbard.

“I have no such intentions.”

“Great!”

They stared at each other for a while. Vergil wished he knew what he was supposed to say now, but he’d never made a habit of pointless words. He did not waste time discuss the weather, or the latest celebrity scandal, or any pedestrian topics the rabble latched on to fill their days. He’d always had more important things to deal with. Except now what seemed important was to avoid this burning silence between Nero and him, and he struggled to find something less pathetic than “hell hath nothing on this accursed summer heat”. He was about to abandon and voice that when Nero saved him, digging into his large pockets and retrieving a thin brown book marked with the letter V. 

His William Blake collection.

“You asked me to hold onto it,” Nero said, before throwing it back at Vergil, who caught it midair. And then, without warning, “Do you remember being V?”

Vergil’s eyebrows shot up at the directness. Nero didn’t beat around the bush, it seemed. He liked that, even though it was a question he would rather have avoided. Vergil flipped the book over and traced the letter as he answered. “To some extent, yes. I remember both, albeit with varying degrees of clarity.”

“Good.” Nero strode up to him, stopping right in front of Vergil and forcing him to look up. “I liked V. He was a smug, cryptic bastard at times, but we got along. Of course, he never told me he was  _ also  _ the asshole who ripped my arm off.” He set his boot on the couch, right between Vergil and the Yamato. Vergil’s hand reflexively went to the sword. He could feel it through the scabbard, vibrating. When Nero leaned forward, one arm set against his raised knee, Vergil leaned back, his heart pounding. “I’ve had two whole months to figure out if I wanted to know you. The answer’s yes, but not if you’re going to lie out of your ass again. Is that clear?”

Vergil’s fingers tingled from the rush of blood through his body. He could feel every heartbeat, was keenly aware of the couch against his back, the texture of the Yamato’s scabbard under his fingers, the smell of leather from Nero’s boot. All his senses had flared up, and he belatedly realized it was power welling up, honing him as if he needed to fight, reacting to one very powerful fear: fucking up. He exhaled very slowly, forcing the whirlwind to calm down, hoping most of it had stayed hidden, unnoticed by Nero. 

“Crystal,” he answered, his voice surprisingly steady.

“Good.” Nero pulled back and the tension vanished from his expression, wiped away by an almost shy smile. “Good,” he repeated, and the hint of giddiness in his voice sent a wave of joy through Vergil. “So … what’s your plan now?”

Vergil froze.  _ A plan.  _ Of course he had a plan. He always had one. He--he … he had no idea. He used to always look forward, to project himself into a place and time of power, of victory. The objectives were clear; the steps to reach them easy to figure out. Plans had helped him survive, given him the drive to keep moving, saving him from lingering on that fateful day in Redgrave. He’d survived alone as a child, grasping at ever more power to defend himself, to become the son Sparda had intended him to be. Until the Temen-ni-gru.

Then he had spent nine years subjugated under Mundus as Nelo Angelo, barely cognizant of his past, a tool Dante had eventually destroyed, taking their mother’s pendant. Yet even that, he had survived. He had pulled himself from the brink of death, into a cracked and corrupted body held together through the shreds of demon power left within. If he hadn’t taken back the Yamato--if he hadn’t stabbed himself, separating V from Urizen and allowing the latter to claim the demon world--he would have died. Vergil closed his eyes. Even today, he did not regret his choice, only that the Yamato had wound its way into Nero’s arm.

But now he had returned, his body was healthy, he had no immediate concern about his survival, and he had no idea what to do with himself. Nero was staring at him in silence, waiting for an answer Vergil didn’t have.

“I don’t know.” The admission burned his tongue. He refused to drift into this world without a clear idea of his direction, but he perceived no goal worthy of his energy. Vergil spread his fingers over Blake’s collection, and added, “For now, I shall reread this wonderful book and pray I’ll find answers within its page.”

Nero grimaced and muttered, “Good luck with that.”

This time, it was Vergil’s turn to laugh. “You should not underestimate the power of poetry.”

“Yeah, you take that conversation up with Nico, she’ll be waay more interested.” He wiped his hand on his pants as if he needed to clean it from holding the collection. “Look, I gotta run, but we’re in the area for a month. I said what I had to. Drop by if ‘Being an Actual Father’ ever makes it onto your plan.”

He dropped it in an almost casual tone, but his voice caught at the end. Nero turned away and walked towards the door, head high, never breaking his stride as he pulled the two great doors. Vergil stared at Nero’s back as his son walked away, impressed by the self-control and pride. By his side, the Yamato slowly lost the slow thrum that had inhabited it since Nero’s arrival. The stillness it left behind weighed on Vergil’s shoulders. He slumped into the couch and stared at the ceiling, at a loss.

Vergil had plunged a sword inside himself without hesitation, yet the perspective of engaging a relationship with Nero left him paralyzed with fear. 


	3. For High Achievers Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico interrupts Vergil's calm afternoon, bringing gifts and memories with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some significant canon divergence coming up now--  
> 1) When Nico meets V in DMC5, it sounds like they'd never really seen each other, but I love the idea of them having had a month to get to know each other, instead of a day.  
> 2) Technology time frame: they got present day tech, which in turns means Vergil disappeared into Hell around the 90s, when your line would get cut off from someone else in the house lifting the phone. The opportunities there were just too good to pass up :D

Vergil’s gaze swept over the city below. Great gusts of wind caught into his coat, hanging on the bench beside him, and sent it flapping in a sweet melody. The day was too hot for anything more than a thin shirt, sleeves rolled up, but he hadn’t been able to leave the three-tailed coat behind. _In case it rains_ , he’d told Dante, and his brother had pointed at the clear sky and teased. Vergil let him. Without the coat, his fingerless gloves, and the Yamato, he felt out of place, naked, vulnerable. It was silly and irrational, but living with Dante for a few days had already taught him one precious lesson: he didn’t need to justify everything.

Still. Maybe it would rain. Maybe there would be demons. Who knew, truly, what evil lurked in this hill’s park? One needed to be ready for every eventuality, even if the plan was only to read outside in the sun for most of the afternoon. Vergil leaned back against the bench, tilting his head into the sun, its light once familiar now almost foreign to him, and heaved a sigh. Dante had told him to take it easy and ‘enjoy the sun like a normal person not bent on destroying the world in a mad quest for power’, and he was trying, really, but sitting here made him restless.

Tires screeched behind him, heavy and familiar, and V’s memories slipped to the forefront of his mind. So many shattered brick walls and destroyed merchants stands as they travelled through Red Grave. Nico never braked normally if she could help it, and he should count himself lucky the van hadn’t threatened to crush his bench and him with it.

“Hey, V-man!” Nico’s voice bounced through the empty air. “This park’s awfully outta the way. You thinking of avoidin’ me? That’s no way to treat a friend.”

A _friend_? Vergil turned around, one arm over the bench, to stare at Nico’s head peeking out of the driver’s window. She was hanging both arms out, cigarette pinched between her lips, and she did not appear to be mocking him. While uncertain of how to best characterize their relationship now, Vergil remembered it was often best to simply roll with whatever emerged from Nicoletta.

“I would not dream of escaping you,” he said.

“Then hop on in.”

She tapped the van’s side twice then slunk back inside. Vergil collected his belonging and strode around, entering from the back. Memories hit him as he pulled himself out of the sunlight and into the dusty chaos--of Griffon crouching in front of him, of everyone clutching whatever they could as Nico swerved madly through the crumbling streets, of a long night sitting on the floor, Shadow against his feet, reading his favourite Blake passages to a completely stoned Nicoletta while Nero snored in a corner. Vergil’s throat tightened and he paused, hand on the door, aware none of this would come to pass again. He wasn’t V anymore--or not only him, at any rate.

“C’mon,” Nico called. “Get your ass in shotgun. We’re going for a ride!”

Vergil stored his gloves in the pocket of his coat then set it next to the Yamato, on the larger couch, before gingerly making his way across the dangerous field of gun parts and miscellaneous items that littered the van’s ground. He slipped into the front seat, sitting at its edge, and clasped his hands together as she hit the gas and sped away.

“You look stressed out, bud,” she commented. “I got some weed if you wanna smoke?”

Vergil choked down a laugh at the suggestion. She’d offered him that almost word for word the first time he’d embarked into the van only to discover their driver had likely learned that skill through rallies. Griffon had promptly declared there were easier ways to die than to let Nico behind the wheel, and he’d been inclined to agree. Today Vergil’s worries were less about his safety and more about the Nicoletta’s intentions, but still he gave her the same answer.

“I have no need for such things.”

“Suit yourself!” She spun the wheel and the van swerved at top speed around a wide bend. Trees flashed before Vergil’s eyes, blurring into one another. “You’re still allowed to lean back and breathe, y’know. I ain’t kidnapping you or somesuch.”

Vergil snorted. “I’d like to see you try.” Still, he slid deeper into the seat and tried to let himself relax. He had nothing to fear here--nothing physical, anyway. “What _are_ you doing?”

“Drivin’.” She hit the brake to drift another corner, a smug smile spreading across her face. She knew that hadn’t been his question. Vergil fought to urge to repeat it more precisely and crossed his arms, looking out. Two could play this game, and Nicoletta had never been the most patient one. As they reached the bottom of the hill, she broke the silence. “I got you a gift.”

“A… gift?” he repeated, surprise stealing a more coherent answer out of him.

“Yeah, a gift! It’s these things friends sometimes offer each other, just to make the other happy?” She waved her hands around while talking, and Vergil almost snapped at her to put them back on the wheel. “Most of them are wrapped up in fancy paper and shit, but I didn’t have time for that so you’ll have to deal.”

“I know what a gift is,” he started.

“You didn’t sound like it.”

“But I did!”

“ _Sure_ , V-man. You did.”

She snorted, and he threw his hands up. “Demons take you, woman, can you get any _more_ annoying?”

Nico burst out laughing and hit the break. The van came to a screeching stop under an enormous willow, and the leaves left mottled shadows across her face as she turned to him, one arm thrown over the wheel. “S’that a challenge? ‘Cause you know I can.”

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose. Breathe in. Breathe out. He had no doubt she could, but he had no desire to see it in action--unless, perhaps, Dante was at the receiving end of it. He doubted she’d manage to get under his skin, however, or even wanted to try. Griffon and Nero had always provided easier targets. “So this gift…”

“Straight for the goods, huh?” Nico asked. She stretched out, reaching from the driver’s seat to the small table in the area behind, and returned with a small book with a ribbon tied around it. She offered it to him, and a hint of shyness crept into her voice. “It ain’t much, actually.”

Vergil clasped the books without pulling it back to him and caught her gaze. Something in Nico’s frank personality--in how she let every weakness shine through no matter who could use them--made him want to hide less, to pull down some walls, as if he unconsciously understood he didn’t need them here. It was foolish, a mistake he would no doubt pay for one day, and yet…

“It is to me.” He tugged at the book and she silently released it. “It is certainly disconcerting to be treated as if…” He gestured vaguely at himself, and a stressed laugh escaped him. “As if I was still V, I suppose. But I appreciate the gesture.”

“But you’re V,” she said. “I mean, yeah, you got a jerk-ass demon inside of you and that’s majorly fucked up, and it’s like you aged twenty years in the span of two months, _and_ you’re my best bud’s father which gives me massive weird vibes to think about too hard, but V’s V, ya know? And V was my friend. So I got you a gift to celebrate your return. Now stop making it awkward and open the damn thing.”

In truth, Vergil was glad for the excuse not to respond directly. He should have kept his own habitual counsel when it came to Nico and rolled with the flow, which would have saved him the very honest spill of her thoughts. With a small cough, he turned his attention to the book within his hands. It was bound in leather, its colour a deep blue almost identical to his coat’s, and a twin helix descended over it, simple and elegant. Vergil ran his finger over the relief, then undid the silver ribbon and cracked it open.

The first page greeted him with big, blocky letters. **High Achiever? Crush Your Goals With This Easy Planner!** Vergil glanced at Nico, but when faced with her intent stare, he preferred to return to this strange gift. He flipped page after page, scrolling through spaces for lists of daily tasks, weekly goals, and even monthly focus. Every now and then, a few pages allowed for reviewed goals or instrospections, and the whole thing seemed filled with motivational quotes. It covered the rest of year. Slowly, Vergil closed it.

“It’s a planner,” Nico said helpfully.

“Yes. It said so on the first page.”

The difficulty was not to name this object, but rather to comprehend how he was supposed to use it. Vergil enjoyed the sound of High Achiever--this was, indeed, appropriate for him--but when faced with the first blank space demanding goals from him, his mind ran blank again. A part of him wanted to throw the planner away. He’d never needed such mundane help before, after all. But neither had he ever felt so directionless.

“Nero told me about your little talk, and how you had jackshit idea of what to do now.” She lit herself a cigarette and turned back to the road, starting the van again. “I just thought that couldn’t be right, cause my boy V always knew where he was headed--plans and back-up plans, y’know?”

Of course he did. None of his plans had included the absurd possibility of having fathered a son, let alone one capable of defeating him. What were the chances, that this one time would lead to this? Once he might have thought his luck rotten, but having met Nero…

“All my plans crumble to dust,” he said.

“Well that’s perfect then! Now you got a planner to keep ‘em from doin’ that.” Nico half-stood and reached into her back pocket, retrieving a thick marker. She flung it his way, and Vergil reflexively caught it. “Look, V-man. You ain’t the type to drift. Pick yourself a goal. Shit can be private things like writing poetry of your own. Doesn’t have to include opening any gates to Hell or whatever power schemes you used to have going. Simple things, my man. They get you through life.”

“Simple things,” Vergil repeated, a soft warmth spreading through his chest. “Like finding a good gift for a friend.”

“Yeah, exactly! Now you get it!”

She grinned at him, and in the few seconds she took her eyes off the road, another car cut in front of her. She gave a sharp turn on the wheel and the van swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding ramming this truck in the butt. Nico passed her head out of the window.

“Hey, asshat! I’ve seen demons with no arms that could drive better than you!”

The driver in front answered with a rude gesture through the window. Nico slammed the horn then took the next turn, muttering something about an alternative route. Vergil had gripped both marker and planner tighter, his heart hammering, as if this was worse than the thousands of fights he’d gotten into over the years. But here he had no control, and he hated not being in control. Nico was still mumbling, her eyes on the road, so he reopened his planner once more and found the current week. Slowly to avoid ruining it because of a bump in the road, he wrote:

**Find a gift for Nicoletta.**

He would have to investigate her needs, of course, and find something appropriate. Perhaps he ought to speak with Nero again, to hear his thoughts on the topic.

“So,” she said, startling him. “You like it?”

“I do.” It gave him great anxiety about his plans for the future, but he did like it. It could help him organize his thoughts, unbearably fleeting and scattered since his return from Hell. “You have my deepest gratitude.”

Nico burst out laughing, so hard and for so long Vergil found himself watching the road, afraid she’d hit something. When at last she relented, she wiped tears away. “That’s more politeness than I ever got from Nero for all his Devil Breakers! Put that on your list, V-man: teach Nero the magic words.”

A flush crept up Vergil’s neck. He doubted Nero would want bienséance lessons from him, even if he could use them. He spun the marker between his fingers, thoughtful. Outside, city buildings passed them, growing ever more downtrodden and shoddy. Was she driving him back to _Devil May Cry_? But no, she’d headed in the opposite direction. Vergil was tempted to ask, but he suspected Nico would not give him a straight answer, so he let it go. After a while, Nico broke the silence.

“So what’s up with your tattoos anyway? Those were _amazing_ , and if you had a drop of fashion sense, you’d have kept them!”

Vergil lifted his arm and stared at the bare skin. He missed them, too, although not so much for the aesthetic of them than for what they brought him. “They’re gone.” He let his hand fall and focused on the city outside, forcing his voice to remain steady. He missed Griffon’s chatter and Shadow’s weight at this feet, but their history was not one he was willing to revisit with Nicoletta at the moment. “They bound Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare to me, but they were released when I joined with Urizen once more. All of it is gone, now.”

“Aw, so I'll never see the little chickee again? Damn. Wish I could've said goodbye.”

“As I do.”

Demons did reform, but never with memories of their previous lives. These three had been unique because they had been tied to his human self, bond in his trauma and given life by it. Even once released, he had felt their presence along the massive Qliphoth roots--and he had felt it dissipate.

Discordant notes burst out from the van's speakers, and a screen over the dashboard lit up, a green circle in the center. Nico tapped it, and suddenly Nero’s face appeared, spattered with dirt and blood. What in tarnation was this screen?

“Yo, Nico, where you at? Shit’s a little crazy in the area.” The screen flipped and instead of seeing of Nero, the image showed a disrepaired train station crawling with demons. Vergil quickly counted twenty of them, including a pack of armoured beasts in the center. Nero must have been perched somewhere high to get this kind of view. “There’s gotta be some kind of gate bullshit in the area--the little fuckers just keep pouring on and on. I’m running out of Devil Breakers.”

Nico had already turned the van into a side street and hit on the gas. “Have you been breaking them again? I swear, Nero, it’s like you got no respect for--”

A loud screech interrupted her, and Nero’s head snapped to the side. The image changed again, Nero’s face sliding out of view as the camera flew threw the air. Vergil briefly spotted infernal bats before an impact shook the screen and the view became a mix of blood and gore. Nico let out a large _eww_ , then the camera flew right out, splashing entrails around and returning to Nero. The moment he was back in sight, Nico scolded him.

“This is how you break them, Nero! Don’t go shoving fragile hardware up demon asses, c’mon!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He was moving fast now, jumping around, sometimes sending the arm flying again. The quick succession of image was starting to give Vergil nausea, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Although he’d been forced back out in the open, Nero was wiping the floor with these demons. “Just haul ass, Nico. I’ll clear the area for you.”

“Comin’ already.” She tapped the screen again, and Nero’s face turned into a small square at the bottom. Instead the screen showed a map of the city with a red flag. A moving dot was flashing, and arrows connected the lines between them. How had the map known where to find Nico’s van? Where to find Nero? Vergil stared at it, trying to puzzle out the magic before him, and he was so intent on it he barely registered Nico’s next words. “Don’t get your bean all freaked out. Nico the miracle worker is bringing you actual back-up. We’ll be there in five!”

Vergil’s head jerked up. That was him. Back-up was him. Good thing he had brought the Yamato along. He could still see demons flying in the mini-square of Nero’s image and was itching to join the fight, so he stashed his planner in his sack, sprung out of his seat and strode towards the back of the van. “With great pleasure.”

“Was that _Vergil’s voice_?” Nero asked. “What the fuck Nico? What are you doing with him?”

Vergil froze, a hand on his coat, and looked back. Nero was in full screen again, and he looked anything but happy. Nico only shrugged.

“Hangin’ out,” Nico replied. “It gets boring waiting for you to be in trouble. Besides, you look like you could use the help.”

She wasn’t wrong. The more time passed, the more demons crowded the train station. The camera flew out again, smashing into demons, returning, then flying again. Nico was similarly flying through the streets, taking sharp turns as they made way towards the station.

“If I needed back-up, I’d fucking call Dante,” Nero retorted with almost childish anger.

Vergil’s fingers tightened into the coat. Of course he wanted Dante. Dante had been there while Vergil was still little more than a floating consciousness, struggling to recreate a body. Whether or not Nero wanted him now, however, the boy was clearly outnumbered. He snapped the coat through the air before slipping it on.

“I’m afraid Dante is on his own hunt with Lady and Trish,” he said, the calm of his voice betraying none of his inward struggle. “Let me help, Nero.”

“Ugh.” Nero punched a demon with scythe-like arms straight in the face, sending it sprawling far away. “Fine, but don’t get in my way.”

Nero’s image went black, then vanished to leave nothing but the map. Almost there.

Vergil finished buttoning the straps of his coat, fingers working fast at the buttons while he kept his balance despite Nico’s wild driving. He tied the Yamato at his waist, immediately breathing easier as its weight settled against his hip, then he picked up his glove. He pulled them on one by one, the snug fit further calming in, and flung the large door van’s open just as Nico hit the brakes. A demon flew out of the large windows just as they arrived. Vergil smiled and jumped out of the van.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Nero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very into Nico & Vergil being weird friends, i hope you're all ready for more of it down the line ~
> 
> I'm going to be updated mostly weekly from now on, usually on Thursdays. :)


	4. All Aboard the Demon Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero's not exactly happy about his back-up, but he can't refuse help that deadly... especially when a whole demon train rolls into the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a fighting chapter AND Nero's first POV scenes. :D Really excited about this one. It's a lot easier NOT to talk about your complicated feelings when there's things to kill haha.

Vergil entered the great hall as a deadly blur of slicing sword, his blue, three-tailed coat flying behind him as he cut through a dozen demons in a flash. Nero watched him as he slashed through those awful flying empusa, and despite his reluctance to accept Vergil’s sudden help--fuck Nico and her surprises, she _knew_ everything Vergil-related fucked with his mind--he was impressed. He kicked himself off the empusa’s corpse, grimacing as he felt the squishy body under his boot, and shot his demon arm at the ceiling, grabbing a beam so he could hang midair and watch for a moment.

He might have called it a carnage, but Vergil’s technique was too calculated and gracious for that. Damn, that fucker was fast and efficient. Not a movement wasted, not a misplaced blade, whether conjured or not. How had Nero even managed to win that fight? Had he grown that powerful? Had Vergil been holding back, or tired? It seemed impossible that Nero had not only beaten his father, but utterly crushed him. And yet, everything he knew about Vergil indicated he would never willingly hold back. Nero grinned. Perhaps he was just that good, too.

“Are you taking a breather up there, Nero?” Vergil asked, never breaking his stride. “I can send you homework.”

Nero mouthed ‘homework’ over again, half-offended, half-amused that Vergil had dared, but he soon discovered exactly what Vergil meant. Down below, an armoured demon had spun itself into a spiky frenzy and rushed Vergil, rolling across the floor like a furious wheel. Vergil jammed Yamato between two large spikes as he leaned backward to avoid being shredded into pieces, then he used his sword as a lever to fling the wheel upward… and straight toward Nero.

 _Homework_.

Asshole dad had a sense of humour, it seemed.

With a whooping laugh, Nero launched himself off the beam, revving Red Queen up as he flew towards the demon. The sword slashed cleanly through the spikes then caught into a more solid armour. Nero held on with one hand, set his feet against the beast’s flat side, and pressed Blue Rose exactly where the silly thing’s head was.

“Perfect grade,” he said, before pressing the trigger.

The demon went limp midair, and Nero pushed himself away from it, leaving Red Queen embedded in its flesh for now. He arched himself, flipping over so that he landed on his feet in the middle of a group of multi-limbed monstrosities. They screeched at his arrival, eager to assault him, and he grinned at them as he slammed his arm into a brand new Devil Breaker, thrumming with energy. It whirred to life, shining a lovely, destructive blue.

“And now, it’s time to party.”

He pointed the Devil Breaker at the closest demon, slammed his heel into the ground to get a solid pivot point, then unleashed the power within his arm. A beam of pure energy burst from it as he spun on himself, a quick 360 of death slicing through his enemies. From the corner of his eyes, he caught Vergil leaping high over the beam as it passed him and annihilated the demon he’d been fighting. For an instant, Vergil seemed to hang midair, then a thin blue line crossed the distance between him and a flying empusa, and he reappeared with the Yamato deep within its neck.

Amidst the dying screams of devils, the great stone pillars of the station groaned. The one closest to Nero had been sliced cleanly through and shone a bright red. It rumbled and cracked, the sound shaking Nero’s bones, and a shower of dust fell from the sky. He looked up in time to witness the crack spread through the ceiling and a great chunk of plaster fall down. Nero jumped back with a swear. Time to get the hell out of here. But first, Red Queen.

He sprinted to the sword and revved its handle as fast as he could, the ceiling giving in more and more with every passing second. The blade heated up, melting the demon’s flesh until it gave off a putrid stench, but it eventually freed--just in time, too. As Nero pulled it out, the rest of the ceiling came crashing down. He sprinted away, towards the safe area of the train station, close to the rails, where Vergil finished cleaning out the last of the demons. The man sheathed the Yamato just as Nero leaped away from a last falling boulder, landed in a roll nearby, and came right up barely a few feet away.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, dusting off his jacket.

Vergil looked over his shoulder, then back at him. “Perhaps you should reconsider the use of this particular Devil Breaker when inside unstable structures.”

Was this asshole telling him how to fight? Nero set his hand on his hip. He knew Vergil had a point, but that didn’t stop him from retorting with an exaggerated uppity accent, “Perhaps you should reconsider the use of your words when inside unstable relationships.”

Hurt flickered through Vergil’s expression so fast Nero suspected he’d imagined it, but before he could reply, a whole ass train came rolling into the station. Except half of the wagons on this one looked like they’d been blown open from inside, or had their roofs torn to shreds. Rusty metallic bulges clung to the outside, crawling over it, and some seemed to ooze with a dark, oily substance. A soft aura of wrongness emanated from the train, growing stronger as it pulled ever deeper into the station.

“Curious,” Vergil said, leaning back and waiting.

“Just looks like more fuckery to me,” Nero replied, and immediately headed towards it.

The train rumbled to a stop, a merchandise wagon directly in front of them. Nero revved up Red Queen with a smile, ready for more action, and when the wagon’s sliding metal door burst outward, he dodged it with a triumphant laugh. Behind it, a large demon emerged from the wagon, squeezing through the door and expanding outward. It had two beefy arms and stump-like legs, and most of its body was an undefined mess of metallic parts that reflected light in hundreds of different directions. It actually looked a lot like V’s Nightmare, if it had been built from compressed car parts instead of goopy dunk, down to the obvious eye-like weak points in its head. When the resemblance hit him, Nero glanced back--and indeed, Vergil had slid a step back, hands clenched around the Yamato, his easy curiosity replaced by controlled tightness. He’d seen it too.

“Care to explain?” he demanded, pointing to the demon creature.

“I wish I could,” Vergil said. “This creature has no right--”

Said creature screeched all over the end of his sentence, tore the sliding door away, and flung it past Nero, at Vergil… who only watched it coming. Why the fuck wasn't he moving?

“Hey!” Nero started back, ready to fling his demon arm, knowing it didn't have the strength to stop the door, but he needed to try, to--

Vergil twitched, and an explosion of blue light blinded Nero. The loud clang that followed shook him to the bones, but when he looked again, two large hands had grabbed the side of the door--demon hands, with large blue claws and a black shine to them. Vergil flung the piece of metal away, flames of blue coursing around his demon form, forming two blades near his elbow. Yet the form flickered and receded almost immediately, leaving behind only a stunned-looking Vergil, who stole a glance at his fingers with a hint of confusion.

What. The. Fuck.  Why did he look shaken? Had the Devil Trigger slipped from him unwillingly? That sure as all hell hadn’t happened atop the Qliphoth, and Nero couldn’t help the spike of worry slamming through him.

No time to ask now. Demons had started crawling out of the multiple wagons, and the Nightmare-ish creature stomped forward, shaking the whole station. Vergil unsheathed the Yamato and fell into a fighting stance, surveying the area. He seemed thankfully back to himself, and nodded at Nero.

“Take it down. I’ll keep the rabble off your back.” And he was off, sprinting towards the wave of demons pouring out of the blown-up wagons, his focus entirely on the movements of his blade.

Nero put Vergil’s momentary absence out of his mine as he turned back to the huge demon lumbering forward, Red Queen still thrumming with energy in his hand. He ran towards it, grinning as it joined its fists to slowly slam them to the ground. Nero flung himself to the side, avoiding the very obvious hit, then came up in a roll and jumped onto the fists, landing just as it lifted them back up. The uneven car parts made it hard to balance, but he sprinted along the right arm as the creature brought his left palm down on it like he wanted to flatten a fly. Nero scrambled out of the way, then slammed his flaming Red Queen into the back of the left hand, burning through the metal and melting it around. When the demon tried to pull its hand, it remained stuck, pinned by the handle. Nero grinned at it.

“You won’t need that for long anyway,” he promised.

He armed himself with Rawhide and climbed through the cutting car doors and rusted metal parts. The creature roared and tried to shake him off, but every time it managed to throw Nero off, he shot the claw-like Devil Breaker forward and pulled himself back in. This was one wild rodeo, and he was glad this atrocity seemed unable to melt itself back into the ground the way Nightmare would have. He finally got to the top, where he could reach the eye-like center shining an acidic green.

That, of course, is when the demon finally freed its hand and sent Red Queen flying all the way across the room. Oil boiled out of the wound left behind and it roared, bucking and reaching up for Nero, surprisingly fast compared to earlier. Angry, maybe. Thick fingers wrapped around him, tightening quickly. Cursing, Nero squeezed an arm out, aimed Blue Rose at the ‘eye’ and slammed the trigger hard. The demon screamed--the sound of metal being ripped apart, rattling Nero’s bones and ringing hard in his ears--then it squeezed its fists in pain, crushing Nero in its grasp. He gasped, pain spreading through his arms and chest. Fuck. Ill-thought plan. He needed to get out, to find the strength to push this stupid demon away. He needed… stronger arms, power flowing through him.

Nero closed his eyes, trying to ignore the slow grind of metal jammed into him, crushing and cutting him, to focus on that strength within him, waiting to resurface, unlocked and free. The demon coursing in, whirling, ever craving more action, more power. At the edge of his mind, he heard the Bringer’s voice again, clamouring for power, and it struck him how like Urizen it was--how like _Vergil._ His own demon, deep inside him--but his had only ever saved lives.

The energy burst out of Nero, two bright blue arms sprouting out of his back like wings as his skin hardened and the world shifted, his perception of time changing, slowing the universe to a crawl. His arms grabbed the creature’s sharp-edged fingers and he began to pull them apart, giving himself space to breathe. His regular hand still clutching Blue Rose, he aimed another shot at the eye, hoping this one would be enough.

“Nero!”

Vergil’s voice reached him as if it’d travel through several universes. He’d never get used to this distortion in Devil Trigger, the feeling of everything happening too slow, too far, of the world being jello’d while he moved normally. Nero looked up and was stunned to see the Yamato flying through the air, at him-- _for him_. He stored his gun back with a quick spin, then caught the katana. It vibrated in his hand, shining a soft blue he’d only seen from it when he’d held it with his old Devil Bringer, and a peaceful, confident strength filled him.

Nero flexed his two demon arms, tearing the metal fingers away from him before grabbing one, dragging it along as he hit the ground. He lifted the huge demon over his head and slamming it to the ground, using the force of the blow to lift himself up and land on top of the demon, right next to the greenish eye. He slammed the Yamato into it as his feet hit the outside of a car door. The sword slid right in, slicing through, and the demon jerked under him. An awful grind of metal echoed through the train station again, then the creature lay still.

When Nero surveyed the situation, he found he could easily track Vergil’s movements now. Blue swords flew out from him at regular interval, impaling demons as he slid through their masses, dodging blows with ease or parrying with the Yamato’s empty scabbard. He barely seemed hampered by the lack of his actual weapon.

Behind them, the train had started moving again. No way he was letting that cursed thing get away! Nero pulled the Yamato out of the Nightmare-ish demon and was surprised to find green crystals clinging to its blade, but he quickly shook them off and leaped on top of the closest wagon, only to find lesser demons swarming the interior. They were in for the long run, that was for sure. Nero returned his attention to the station, and quickly spotted Red Queen, far to the left.

“Hey, Vergil! Can you get that for me?”

Vergil’s only answer was the tiniest nod, but he immediately changed his pathway, flipping backward over a long-armed demon and sprinting towards the sword. Nero kept an eye on him as his arms grabbed one lesser demon after the other, bringing them up so that he could blow their head off, the routine almost mechanical. Once this wagon was cleaned, he sprinted down the length of the train, closing in on Vergil’s own trajectory.

Vergil skidded to a stop as he bent and grasped Red Queen’s handle, then turned around. Nero sent an arm for him, snatching him by the neck and throwing him in the air, back towards the train, and was delighted by the brief shock on Vergil’s face as he found himself flying through the air.

“All aboard!” Nero called, allowing his demon form to recede as Vergil twisted through the air to land feet first right next to him, atop the accelerating train. Vergil let out a small exhalation and dusted himself off.

“That was entirely unnecessary,” he said.

“But fun,” Nero countered. “You should have seen your face.”

A quick snort-laugh escaped Vergil, and he clamped down on it fast before extending Red Queen to Nero. “As demanded.”

Nero glanced down at the Yamato. It had lost its blue sheen, but he could still feel its warmth. There had been something reassuring in its presence all these years, secured in the Devil Bringer, a gift from Dante and a clear sign of his trust. To think Vergil would just… pass it to him, like that? Nero pressed his lips together, not too keen on examining the way his stomach tightened now, and flipped the katana to hand it pommel-first to Vergil.

“It likes you,” Vergil said, before wrapping his fingers reverently along the handle. “I can feel it when you’re nearby.”

“Sparda’s blood?” Nero suggested, his heart hammering hard.

Vergil shook his head. “It never reacts to Dante.”

So, just him. Hadn’t Dante said the Yamato’s reaction was how he’d known he was Vergil’s son? That was too weird, the way the demon sword could just tell, and when shit got too weird, Nero preferred to move on without asking questions. He started towards the head of the train just as they completely cleared the station.

“So what was that earlier? When you froze?”

Vergil’s smooth strides behind him broke for an instant, barely perceptible. “I waited for the opportune moment.”

“Right.” Whatever. As long as it didn’t happen again, it was none of his concern. “Let's figure out what the hell is going on here.”

The locomotive seemed the best place for that. It powered the whole train, no? This one probably ran on human souls or blood, like every other demon bullshit to surface in the demon world. All they needed was to fight their way there, and destroy it.

Demons kept coming at them as they stalked forward, sometimes flying high in the sky before diving in with scythe-like arms, sometimes bursting through the roof from the wagon behind, bloated members flailing wildly. Easy to slice through and barely an hindrance to Nero on his own, let alone with Vergil by his side. From the corner of his eyes, Nero caught sight of their van weaving through the rapidly diminishing buildings, keeping up. Every now and then, the exploded roof forced them to jump down and move through the freight car instead, but they made good progress regardless.

Once, dozens of tentacles erupted from the wagon below them, sending shards of glasses flying. One snatched Nero's ankle, yanking him off the floor, only to be immediately cleaved in two by a thin blue line. Vergil smirked as Nero slammed his chin on the wagon in a hard landing, but then a second _bigger_ tentacle wrapped around his chest. With a laugh, Nero propped himself on his elbow and caught Vergil in a bright blue demon arm, pulling back with equal force before the tentacle could drag him away, then shot Blue Rose several times. The tentacle writhed away, and in the brief respite, Nero jumped to his feet. They moved towards the center, back-to-back as they studied the multiple appendages.

“Now would be an excellent time for that big gun of yours,” Vergil pointed out.

“All out. Told ya I needed more Devil Breakers. Instead I got you.”

“I assure you, that is amply sufficient.” He raised the Yamato higher, and blue energy blades shimmered into existence around them.d them. “These tentacles must be attached to a central core. I’ll leave it to you, Nero. Now, get down.”

He didn’t give Nero much time to react--nor did he need to. Nero flattened himself on his belly as Vergil spun on himself, the Yamato describing a wide circle around him. Every blue sword shimmered, then flattened into a second circle, wider, which exploded outward. Nero scrambled forward as writhing tentacles fell around him, severed from their trunk, and he jumped over the wagon’s side, grabbing the top as he swung inside feet first.

He landed into squishy flesh, so dark it seemed to absorb the outside light--not that Nero would complain about that. He didn’t need to see this ugly-ass demon to stab it. He plunged Red Queen in one decisive strike, then sliced through the main body. The blob of flesh jerked him around as it writhed, but Nero held strong. Above, he could hear Vergil’s quick steps as he fought and he had to admit, it was kind of nice, not to be alone. Nico had to stick to the periphery, and demon-hunting in Europe often turned into a solitary business. Not that he needed the help, of course--it was just a nice change of pace. It’s just, if it had been Dante on top, it would’ve been less… complicated.

Nero pushed that particular ball of unwanted emotions into a vicious strike and finished off the tentacled demon, sending oily black blood flying across the walls. Then he punched the roof--“All clear. Moving out!”--and started off again. He’d clear the inside; Vergil could take the top.

They’d gone through three or four wagons this way, cleaning out lesser demons Nero could have taken with his eyes closed, the occasional flash of blue or smug scoffing reminding him of Vergil’s presence above, when Vergil called him back up. Nero’s arms were starting to ache from exhaustion, and he wouldn’t mind the break, even if he’d never admit it. He climbed back out and found Vergil standing still, the wind billowing in his three-tailed coat, blue eyes fixed on the horizon.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Vergil rose a hand to silence him, never looking his way. Anger surged and Nero strode forward.

“Fuck that. Just tell me what’s up.”

“Look for yourself,” Vergil answered, unfazed by his anger. He pointed at a tree. “See that?”

It was a half-dead tree, one massive branch broken apart from it by high winds from a past storm and hanging downwards. They’d definitely left the city now and were travelling at high speed through wheat-filled countryside stacked against wide forests. The tree zoomed past, doing absolutely nothing special. Nero whirled on Vergil.

“Stop wasting my time, Vergil!”

“I’m not. Wait a minute.”

Ugh, why wouldn’t he just tell him what was going on? Nero resisted the urge to punch his too-calm face and slammed his hands inside his coat’s pockets instead. He started mentally counting the seconds, promising himself he _would_ punch Vergil if he was playing some dumb prank on him. Then as the minute’s end approached, Vergil pointed again.

“See that tree?”

It was the exact same half-dead tree. It zoomed past Nero, doing absolutely nothing again, but undeniably identical to the first--and as Nero recognized that, he drew his pistol out and shot at it. The bullets ricocheted on a shimmering wall of red.

“The fuck. It’s a loop?”

“I’m glad you agree.”

“What happens if we jump off the train?” he asked. Would it keep zooming past them endlessly? Was the loop attached to it?

“At this point in time, I do not wish to find out.” Vergil’s gaze swept up and down the train. Belatedly, Nero noticed he hadn’t moved at all since he’d climbed back out, except to point at the tree, and now his fingers tapped Yamato’s pommel over and over. He felt… tense, even though the only outward sign was his rhythmic tapping. “Many demons have an unique relationship to time. In Hell, it flows… differently, occasionally distorted by the presence of such demons. If this is a demon’s bubble, and if it is affecting us in an enclosed manner, there is no telling how much time is passing in the human world.”

“ _What?”_

“It could be seconds, or it could be years.”

No no no no. Nero had a life in the human world. No way he was going to vanish for years at a time just because he’d hopped on a stupid demon train. He didn’t want Kyrie to wait endlessly, to mourn his disappearance, to age without him. Or Dante to learn his family had just vanished, whisked into Hell again. His fists curled up from anger and fear alike. Vergil still hadn’t moved, eyes on the horizon, and the immobility shattered Nero’s patience.

“How can you be so calm? We gotta get out!”

This time, Vergil did spun towards him. “I’m not _calm_ , Nero!” He breathed in deeply, exhaled--replaced his mask, really. “I have no desire to lose more years of my life to Hell. Twenty was plenty, wouldn’t you agree?”

Nero found his words missing. Twenty years--almost his entire lifetime, really. He had so little idea of what happened to Vergil beyond what Lady had shared of their first meeting and of the limited account Dante had made of it. It was easy to forget his story didn’t start with the rattling demon who’d torn his arm off.

The tree passed them by again, and Vergil sighed. “I cannot find the seam in the loop.”

“Then let’s just bust the engine.” Nero motioned at the locomotive, only a few wagons away now.

A brief smile danced on Vergil’s lips. “That is such a Dante-plan.”

“It works!” Nero exclaimed, deciding to take that as a compliment. “And it’s better than standing here and waiting for time to pass.”

Vergil agreed with a slight nod and a pensive ‘hm’, then they were both off again. The waves of demons seemed to have calmed down, enough that Nero paid attention to the loop. Every time the half-dead tree passed them, he cringed. Was that a year? A split second? How much time was he losing? Without realizing it, his quick strides turned into a sprint, until he was leaping over the last freight car and directly upon the locomotive. He climbed down in a hurry, kicking in the door as he drew Red Queen.

Demonic bullshit had 100% overtaken the engine room. Bulging vein-like structures ran along its walls, pulsing vomit-green and bruise-purple in turn. The floor was slick and oily, and the way it reflected the changing light made it seem like a deep lake, ready to absorb Nero entirely. Crust covered most of the control panel, but a light pierced through it, pulsing in time with the veins. As Nero stepped in, a thick black goop fell on his shoulder. When he tried to brush it, it just clung to his palm instead, and more fell from the ceiling. Nero looked up just in time for a shower of demonic ooze to crash on his head.

It clung to his skin, pushing at it, as if trying to get into every pore. Nero shook his head, trying to get the ooze out of his nostrils and away from his lips, but it was glued tight to him, and for the second time today he struggled to breath. _Calm down_ , he scolded himself. He stabbed Red Queen on the ground and revved it up, focusing on the warmth of the flames he couldn’t see, on the way the goop shied from it. Nero flipped his grip on the sword and approached the blade, clearing more of it away, grimacing as he felt it slide off his skin. Once his vision returned, he directed the sword more easily. Vergil had joined him, slashing the Yamato at the ooze--except instead of running away, the thing turned into green crystals upon contact and clung to the katana briefly before disintegrating. Nero watched the methodic cleaning for a moment then approached the control panel. Red Queen was burning up with energy--perfect for maximum wreckage.

Nero flipped his grip on it, then slammed it hard downward into the panel, grinning as the blade sliced through metal, wiring, and demon crust alike.

As it turned out, stabbing the concentrated source of a demon train’s power with an equally high-energy sword was not the best idea. The green-purple pulse quickened and brightened, turning into a blinding white light, then it vanished entirely from the walls, as if sucked in by the control panel. Nero felt the building of energy in front of him, the slow gathering of a powerful shockwave.

“Nero!”

A hand grabbed his hoodie. Nero clung tighter to Red Queen, holding onto it as he was yanked backward and the world distorted blue around him. Everything slowed as they crashed through the metal walls, barely dodging a concentrated beam of energy shooting out of the control panel and piercing the train from one end to the other. The shockwave still hit them hard, sending them flying through the air. Vergil and Nero hit the ground hard, rolling through dirt and grass until their momentum slowed. They remained there, panting and staring into the sky, as the train exploded and crashed off the rail. The sky above was blue, and Nero hoped it was their own, in normal human time.

Vergil pushed himself into a sitting position with a groan, studying the wreckage of the train. “You could’ve used your head before you stabbed it.”

“My head’s not that hard. It just wouldn’t go through the same.”

Vergil’s brief scoff was covered by the vibrant and familiar motor of the _Devil May Cry_ van. Nero breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the cloud of dust grow closer. Surely they weren’t still in a time loop if Nico was about? He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the road, glad he wouldn’t have to walk back to the city. Nico brought the van to a screeching stop barely a few feet away, and leaned out of the window.

“There you are! Whatever weird shit was going on with the train, it totally messed up the GPS transmission! One moment you were there, and then the whole ass train was just gone! Poof!” She threw her arms out to mimic a gigantic explosion. “And wow, you two look like _shit_.”

“How long where we gone?” Nero asked. That was, right now, all that mattered. Sunlight was fading, so it was at least a few hours, but what if Nico had been prowling for longer, and only came rushing when the signal returned?

“Two… three hours, tops? Those were boring hours, let me tell you. I hope you had more fun, Nero, ‘cause you totally stole my company.”

“You shoved him on me,” Nero protested. He could almost feel Vergil’s gaze on his back, the contained emotions behind his mask. “But yeah, it was fun.”

He hopped into the van without looking back at Vergil. Nico whooped, clearly happy enough for the both of them. “Heard that, V-man? You still know how to be fun. Now hop on in, we’ll get you home.”

Nero shed off his coat and crumbled into one of the seats, reaching for the many beers in the cooler by his feet. Damn, but he needed a little refresher. He’d leave a voicemail to Kyrie later, so she’d know he was safe when she woke up. Hopefully he’d manage to get her on the phone tomorrow--it just wasn’t the same to talk into his phone and not have an immediate answer.

Vergil climbed into the van and settled into the chair in front of Nero. Silence stretched between them as Nico turned the van around, heading back to the city. Vergil kept glancing his way, as if about to say something, then thought better of it and held it in. After a while, he slid the Yamato out of its sheath and ran his fingers along its length with a worried frown. Nero sipped at his beer and watched him. Still hard to believe _he_ was his father, and not Dante. That had always seemed to be the logical conclusion to all the demons calling him Sparda’s blood.

“All right,” Nico burst out, “if you two are just gonna do the whole silence thing in the back, put some goddamn music on. This is the most awkward shit, I swear.”

“We’re relaxing!” Nero protested.

“ _Sure_ , you’re relaxing, and I’m a straight soccer mom named Betty. C’mon, Nero, you didn’t even offer him any beer.”

“I’m not thirsty,” Vergil interjected immediately.

“See?” Nero gestured at him. “We’re relaxing.”

“Get your ass to the jukebox or start chatting, is all I’m saying!”

Nero glanced at Vergil, who only offered a slight shrug. With an exaggerated sigh, he pushed himself off the couch and to the jukebox. Good thing Dante’s shop wasn’t too far away, because this promised to be a long ride back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go. That was almost a pleasant family outing, am I right? 
> 
> We'll be updating again next Thursday, and I'm afraid comment moderation stays for now, but please do leave them, I really appreciate everyone's excitement! <3


	5. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rough day aboard the demon train, Vergil is stuck enduring a crowded celebration party and, worse, his brother's concern.

Trish, Dante, and Lady were dividing the pay from their latest hunt when he stepped in, flanked by Nicoletta and Nero, and the conversation briefly died--only to erupt again with questions. Vergil slunk back against the wall, overwhelmed. His head was still ringing from the explosion in the train and the black sludge of the engine room, the way its presence felt like ants had crawled all over his skin, even now. He’d been glad for Nero’s silence in the van and the chance to collect himself and examine the Yamato for any green crystals left, even though it constantly felt like he should be saying something, _anything_.

At least everyone seemed more than happy to leave him alone. After a few quick-fire questions he left half-answered, Lady and Trish had focused their attention on Nero and Nico, both more than happy to complete the tale of the day--Nico with plenty of details and flourishes, and Nero with the most curt, factual version of events he could. Vergil listened in, his back against the wall, wondering if the black ooze had felt the same to Nero, if Red Queen also drew crystals out of it, or if something this was only him, and why. At some point pizza had been called again, and Dante shared their own epic demon hunt--something about the rides of an inside mall park coming to life and compressing each other into a full-bodied demon. Transformer-style, Nico called it with obvious excitement. The thing described was nothing like the demons Vergil had encountered in Hell, or anywhere else, really.

While everyone else devoured their pizza, Vergil had slipped his planner out, found July’s monthly goal page, and written down **Demons possessing objects?** He’d snapped it close before anyone could ask what it was and kept nibbling on his slice--with olives, he noted--even though he didn’t feel remotely hungry. He just needed to get through the impromptu party meal mostly unnoticed, and he felt he had a better chance of doing that if he actually ate.

Vergil didn't quite understand this exhaustion, but it took all his energy to follow the constant bickering and banter between Nico and Nero or Lady and Trish. These conversations were vicious, and the moment Dante stepped in with a comment, everyone whirled on him and ripped him to friendly shreds. Which was a lesson in the virtue of silence, really. If Vergil wanted to engage, he ought to be prepared. For now he leaned back, soaking in their dynamics, the surreal feeling of being allowed to sit here and listen, and he let the buzz in his skull dwindle down.

It wasn’t an unpleasant evening, yet when the door closed behind them, leaving only blessed silence, only pride kept Vergil from crumbling into Dante's comfortable couch. Instead, he sat slow, back straight,but immediately closed his eyes with an exhausted sigh. What was going on with his body? Did he not eat enough? Was it the ooze? The constant tension of being with Nero? He disliked this, even moreso because he could not pinpoint a source for this level of fatigue. The clinking of glass and liquid from Dante's general direction caught his attention, and when he finally peeked, Dante was standing before him, a glass of honey-brown alcohol in hand.

“Whiskey,” he said, then once Vergil had accepted the glass, “So… PTSD is a bitch, isn't it?”

“What?” Vergil froze. He hadn't expected the conversation to go there, wasn't even certain what Dante was referring to, but he knew he absolutely had no desire to talk about any of it. These were things best kept deep inside, locked away and never mentioned, especially not to _Dante_ , who was too likely to see through deflections.

His brother sat on the other end of the couch, turned to him, one arm thrown over the couch. That he could remain so casual was infuriating in itself. “Nero took me aside. Told me about that Nightmare-like demon and how you froze up.”

“I told him--”

“Some bullshit, yeah.” Dante dismissed it with a wave of his hand then downed his drink in a single go. Vergil still hadn't touched his. It felt like any movement risked bringing him deeper into this conversation. Why did Dante even insist on it? “Look, you should know… before Griffon died, he told me what your three friends really were. I gotta say, brother, you’ve got one hell of a relationship with trauma!”

Dante laughed, but his voice was thin, and Vergil immediately knew the joke for what it was: a cover for his malaise. Perhaps he hated this as much as Vergil did.

“Leave them out of this,” Vergil snapped. He couldn’t talk about them, not tonight, already exhausted from the day and on edge from Dante’s questions. Through all of his memories as V, those with Griffon were often the clearest, his voice undistorted by the fusion with Urizen. If Griffon hadn’t saved the human parts of himself he’d so casually discarded…

“All right, all right.” Dante rose a palm in surrender. “Just take care of yourself, ok, Vergil?”

Vergil sipped at the whiskey, focusing on the burning liquid without answering. He much preferred it when Dante repeatedly came at him with swords over words, anger over care. What, did his soul say it wanted to heal him, now? But it didn’t work like that--couldn’t. There was too much that ought to always remain unsaid.

Or so he thought. Dante, clearly, disagreed, and promptly dug himself deeper into this conversation.

“Once, I jumped into a burning house to fight the demons inside. Leaped right in like an idiot, only to be surrounded by flames and smoke. I froze so bad they almost got my skin.” Dante spilled it all out with such a casual tone, he could have been discussing the weather. But he wasn’t smiling, and that in itself was enough to make Vergil’s heart pound. _No shields_ , he thought as his brother went on. “I could hear her, you know. I could hear her voice calling your name, searching for you. Sometimes I smell burning wood and I still can, in the back of my mind.”

Vergil lowered his glass and stared at his brother. This was too raw. He wanted to scold Dante for exposing himself, for daring to tell this story, to be vulnerable. Did he not have any shame? No one needed to know fire haunted him like this, just like no one needed to know the vision of Nightmare had felt like a sword through his heart, years of torture and a month of companionship crashing into each other, freezing his limbs in place.

And yet Dante had told _him_ , steadfastly opening himself to Vergil, and Vergil, so thoroughly dogged by his own memories--his own inability to set aside the past--couldn’t help but feel less alone for it, less shattered himself. He downed the glass of whiskey, trying to digest both the powerful taste and the complex knot of feelings in his throat.

“I'll try,” he said noncommittally, the admission that there was even something to try for burning at his tongue. Dante locked eyes with him with a slight nod, and Vergil found himself continuing despite the shame searing through him. “I just… don’t know how.”

“Fuck if _I_ do.” Dante raised his empty glass, as if toasting to it, then pushed himself off the couch to go back and fill it. “I never even talked about this to anyone.”

Vergil pinched his lips. He didn’t want to examine his feelings regarding being the sole recipient of this information, nor did he want Dante to know how disturbed this entire conversation left him. Discussing anything remotely related to what had passed between them and destroyed the Sparda family felt like a treacherous path--one he was not ready to walk.

“Should a solution present itself to me, you will be the first to know,” he said, keeping his tone derisive. “Maybe I should put that endeavour in my planner.”

“Was that your little book earlier?”

He gestured for Vergil's glass, and Vergil flicked it across the room. At least Dante had taken the bait for a change of topic. Perhaps he’d had enough of the little heart-to-heart too. While Dante caught the glass and filled it back up, Vergil retrieved the planner and traced the relief with his fingers.

“It is. Nicoletta believes it may help me.”

“This thing?” Dante darted across the room in the blink of an eye and snatched it out of Vergil's hands. Vergil briefly grasped for it, eyes widening as Dante flipped through the pages. He should've known this would happen! Dante had always loved stealing his books, holding them hostage against time to play outside with swords. “She's got good instincts. Do you remember when we were young, you were always making lists of game we could play!”

“I remember.” They always wound up playing Dante's games anyway, which were consistently more fun and creative. Not that Vergil would ever admit to that.

Dante kept flipping through the pages, his eyes glazing over most of the planner, until he reached this week’s page. He held the book by the side, leaving its pages hanging, and laughed.  

“‘Find Nicoletta a gift’? Does she know you call her that?”

Vergil gritted his teeth. This was none of his business. “Give it back, Dante.”

To Vergil's surprise, Dante did. He snapped it close and offered the planner back with a smile. Now _that_ would have never happened when they were children. “Talk to Lady about the gift.”

Vergil grabbed the planner and stuffed it back into his pocket, where it would be safe, half-convinced Dante would reach for it again. He felt childish, yet there was no denying Dante's potential for mischief. “Lady?”

“Yeah. She's always hoarding demon parts for Nico in exchange for fancy guns. You may not want a firearm, but I bet Nico would _love_ new materials.” Dante retrieved Vergil's glass as he spoke and offered it to him. “Lady would know what’s missing in Nico’s collection better.”

“That's… helpful.”

He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice, and Dante only laughed at it and tapped his skull. “Every now and then, a genius idea comes out of this head, brother.”

“I'll drink to that.”

He lifted his glass, an easy smirk stretching his lips. Dante clinked his own glass against Vergil's, and they both downed it in one go. It burned through his throat, but when the bottle seemed to magically appear in Dante's hands for a refill, Vergil did not protest. The pleasant buzz was replacing the day's crushing exhaustion.

Dante then crashed back on the couch and stretched his legs out, dropping his feet over Vergil's lap and startling him. He was always doing that--invading his space in not-so-subtle ways, trying to get a reaction out of him. The first time he'd thrown his arm over Vergil’s shoulder and went to lean in as a reminder of his slight height advantage, Vergil had grabbed his wrist and flipped him over, heart hammering, fight instincts engaged. Dante had caught himself fast enough to land on his feet and laughed. He'd stopped arriving from behind, but he'd turned it into a game, perhaps knowing Vergil would allow no one else this close. In truth, the teasing had grown reassuring, a constant reminder that he was welcome here, in Dante's space.

“So, first outing with your son huh?”

Vergil glanced at him, but when faced with that wide dummy grin, he returned his attention to the glass and swished it around. Dante was excited about this, and Vergil hated to disappoint.

“I don’t think he likes me.”

“You ripped his arm off,” Dante pointed out, and Vergil couldn't help his sharp, pained laugh. “Besides, I think you're wrong. He took me aside to tell me about your freeze up. Must have been worried.”

“Must have,” Vergil repeated in a whisper.

Could Dante be right? Nero had said he wanted to know him. It was just so hard to wrap his head around this information, much like Nicoletta’s unyielding friendship. It felt like these things belonged to V alone and he should have lost them as he fused back with Urizen. Vergil closed his eyes and sipped at his glass of whiskey, allowing his mind to wander to his fleeting memories of the month split apart. Words emerged, unbidden, and because he had always been of the opinion that poetry lived when spoken, he let them fly.

“ _Father, father, where are you going_

_O do not walk so fast._

_Speak father, speak to your little boy_

_Or else I shall be lost.”_

Dante was staring at him--Vergil could tell even without opening his eyes, and he clung to his glass of whiskey, regrets already burning at exposing himself like this.

“Do you, like, have one of these for every occasion?” Dante asked, a laugh threaded in his voice, and Vergil was glad he hadn’t commented on the poem’s subject.

“My dear Dante, there is no facet of life poetry has not addressed,” he said mildly. As expected, Dante’s eyebrows shot up in a silent challenge. Vergil leaned towards him, rose his glass, and quoted, “ _The Questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply._ ”

Dante howled with laughter, slapping his leg as he did, his voice booming through the office. He nudged Vergil with his heel, grinning, blue eyes shining. “Again.”

It was impossible not to oblige. He’d never heard Dante laugh like this, not as an adult, and the sound sank into Vergil and made him more light-headed than any whiskey ever could. “ _Mock on, mock on--‘Tis all in vain!_ ” he exclaimed, and then, more softly, “ _Opposition is true friendship._ ”

The second part killed some of Dante’s bluster, and his laugh trailed off into a happy sigh. “Aah, Vergil…”

His name slipped out, filled with a longing born of twenty years of missed opportunity and a serenity so great it scoured through Vergil, leaving him breathless. Dante emptied his glass then let himself slide down the couch until he was laying completely on his back, staring at the ceiling, his legs all over Vergil. Never in his life had he imagined such a moment could happen, that Dante and him could simply sit on a couch without the weight of the world between them.

Dante snorted, still grinning. “Twenty years in Hell, and my brother’s still the best nerd known to the human world.”

Vergil leaned back into the couch, a flush creeping up his neck. He let Dante’s words fill him as he quietly sipped his drink. How had things changed so much? And in a single instant, in Nero’s unyielding refusal to let them kill each other, to allow their cycle to go on. Now Dante and him were threading new grounds, Dante forging ahead and leading him down paths Vergil would never have considered. The best nerd known to human world…

The day’s exhaustion was catching on again, but his mind refused to quiet down, replaying everything over and over--every word said, every flash of anger in Nero’s eyes, every burst of laughter from Dante… His brother was an anchor, strangely familiar and easy to approach even when everything else spun around him. He had always been, predictable even when they fought, and it made it easier for Vergil to just _be_ , without preconceived expectations forged from Urizen or V. Vergil finished his glass slowly, savouring the peaceful silence and the reassuring weight of his brother’s legs on his lap.

“And  _my_ brother is still the best, no qualifier needed,” he whispered.

Dante’s only reply was a soft snore. He had fallen asleep--right on top of him. Of course. Vergil rewarded him with a long flat stare, then shook his head and retrieved his planner, set it against Dante’s leg, and added a few goals to the week:

**Contact Lady.**

**Make Dante laugh again.**

He hesitated, then found one of the many blank spaces at the end offered for brainstorm. Slowly, feeling terribly foolish, he titled the space “ **How to Be Nero’s Father** ”. The question stared back at him, mocking him. There was no _how_ , he just _was_ , and yet … that was a title granted to him by biological considerations, and he wanted to earn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I now know what it's like to sift through tons of William Blake's poems for the right lines!!! This might be one of the most rewritten chapters so far. Also!!! I know I'm kinda skipping over a lot of the lady & trish content here, but don't worry, they get to be more there later <3 (In fact Lady is ALL over the next chapter)
> 
> (comment moderation still on, sorry!)


	6. A Lady's Fee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil turns to Lady for help in finding Nico's gift, but she doesn't come cheap, nor is she particularly shy with her opinions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Lady and I hope I'm doing right by her XD

“It’ll cost you,” Lady said.

There it was. He’d barely had time to say the words “I need your assistance”, and money was already on the table. Dante had warned him, of course, and in the brief phone conversation required to set a meeting up with Lady, she’d made it strikingly clear that she had absolutely no love for him and would only listen in deference to the other members of his family.

They were sitting on the terrasse of a small pub, Lady with a large pint of dark beer while Vergil sipped at his lemonade. He hadn’t wanted alcohol to hinder his judgement for this meeting. Dante had been very clear: Lady was even more dangerous when discussing money than when fighting demons.

“I was given to understand you accepted debts.”

“Oh no, no way.” She shook a finger at him and leaned over the table. Black bangs fell over her eyes, but he could feel their glare through them. Even as a teenager, Lady had been fierce, but now she had two decades of getting her way to build up her confidence. He stiffened at the untold challenge there but stared right back, unyielding. “Dante gets to have a running tab. You pay up front, Vergil.”

That was preposterous. How could she expect him to spit out money like that? “Don’t be childish. I’ve returned from Hell only ten days ago. I cannot pay you up immediately.”

“Then how were you going to pay for all this?” She gestured at her pint and the now-empty plate of nachos in front of her with a wide, shark-like smile.

Vergil scowled at her. “Why would I pay for it? This is your order.”

Lady slammed the pint hard on the table, causing his heart to jump and his body to go very still. She was getting on his nerves on purpose, and it was working, which was infuriating in and of itself.

“One does not invite a Lady to a business dinner without paying for her meal. Who do you think you are, Vergil, Son of Sparda?” She scoffed and leaned back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other casually. “There are rules. One of them is that you’re paying.”

Vergil suspected the rules somehow only applied when they benefited her, but arguing about this with Lady seemed a thoroughly unadvisable course of action, and he had enough with him to cover for the meal. If he antagonized her over the bill, he was unlikely to receive any help, and Dante _had_ said she was his best bet. As Vergil wrangled his irritation under control, he found himself wondering if his brother hadn’t sent him into a trap for the sheer amusement of it. He certainly wouldn’t put it past Dante.

“Very well. I concede and will take it upon myself to clear our bill here, but it remains that I cannot pay you upfront for your help in this endeavour.”

“And that’s not my problem. No pay, no deal.” She downed the rest of her beer, set it down, and jumped to her feet. Ready to just leave him there without even giving him a chance to explain. “I’m not your friend, Vergil. You want professional help, you hire me proper.”

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself he was doing it for Nicoletta and that if he’d endured hours of Arkham rambling about the greatness of evil, he could certainly control himself around his daughter’s little games. “All I want is to find the right gift for Nicoletta. I’m not asking for your help hunting any demon; I can take care of that myself. She is a business partner, is she not? Is the cost of information so high you cannot afford to delay payment, when she is the recipient?”

Lady stopped halfway towards the exit, turned around, and set a hand on her hip. “It’s for Nico? You want, what, demon parts she could use?”

She was _finally_ listening. Vergil answered with a curt nod, but that didn’t seem to satisfy her. She walked back to the table and leaned closer, studying his expression carefully and leaning increasingly forward as she spoke.

“You could buy her a poetry book from just about anywhere--she loves that shit, and you’d know a bit yourself. Yet you’re willing to indebt yourself to me, knowing I don’t come cheap, for a gift for Nico--one which is unlikely to give _you_ any direct benefit down the road.”

“This is correct,” he said. Her piercing glare didn’t let up, as if he was scheming something nefarious. He’d amply earned her distrust and to some extent, her hostility was amusingly familiar, an invitation to a role he’d long since mastered. Vergil tilted his chin up in response to it, sneering back at Lady, and let his voice slide into mocked arrogance. “Always have I walked dangerous paths to achieve my goals.”

It earned him a derisive snort and an eyeroll, but Lady relaxed. “You do know she's a lesbian, right? And way too young for you.”

Vergil choked in surprise and almost spilled his lemonade in surprise. His face grew several degrees hotter, and despite his best effort, there was no way Lady wouldn’t realize she’d flustered him. Him? With Nico? The very thought he had such designs was mortifying.

“I'm not interested in intercourse with Nico. Don’t be absurd.”

“Good.” She leaned in even closer, slowly, setting a boot against his chair, her voice smooth and more dangerous than the demons roaming the deepest layers of Hell. “Cause I think Nico deserves better, and I don't let gross men around my friends.” She tapped the guns strapped to her thigh twice, an unnecessary gesture; he'd gotten her meaning loud and clear. Then she suddenly straightened up, and continued on a much chipper tone, as if no threats had just occurred. “And for the love of everything, it's called sex, Vergil. Don't talk like slobbering creeps if you don't want to be mistaken for one.”

“Your advice is duly noted,” he replied, forcing his voice into a smooth, disinterested cadence that wouldn’t betray his growing irritation. A part of him wanted to draw the Yamato out and put an end to her insults. He didn’t owe Lady anything, least of all permission to mock and demain it, but he also didn’t really _care_ what she thought of him, as long as he got what he wanted. Aggression seemed unlikely to help him reach his goal, however, so he stilled his urges, playing with his lemonade’s straw to evacuate some energy.

“Now that we are both very clear about my non-existent intentions regarding Nicoletta… will you help me?”

Lady tilted her head to the side, as if considering the idea, and he had the distinct impression the hesitation was faked, a way to get more out of him--though whether the “more” was money or frustration, he wasn't certain.

“Pay another plate of nachos and a refill, and I'll look through my tips and see what I can do for you. You’ll still owe me.”

Vergil rolled his eyes but gestured for her to sit down. She threw herself into the chair with a wide grin, and before long a waiter had returned to take their order. Lady retrieved one of those fancy flat-computer screens like Nico had the other day. With just a few taps of her fingers, she brought up a weird multi-coloured list. What were those? Tips on demons? And how did she make it move so fast? He leaned forward, squinting at the new technology. Lady scowled at him and turned the screen away from him.

“Hey, no peeking! These are professional secrets.”

Vergil leaned back, rolling his eyes. Who did she take him for? He didn’t need to steal those. “I was not trying to read. I was merely curious about the machine.”

“The… machine?” Lady burst into a quick and sharp laughter and mismatched eyes returned to him, carefully considering him. She brandished the flat-computer. “This machine? Oh, _please_ say you don't know what that is.”

Vergil gritted his teeth hard. Of course Lady meant to exploit any sign of ignorance or weakness on his part. But it was too late to recover from that particular mistake. “I have been in Hell for almost a quarter of a century. When I disappeared, _this_ ”--He gestured at Lady's gadget--“did not exist, even as an archaic precursor.”

His explanation did nothing to diminish her laughter, quite the contrary. She repeated ‘precursor’ and laughed even harder, carrying on even as the waiter brought her beer and nachos. When at last she could breathe, Lady shoved some chips in her mouth and kept going.

“Trust Dante not to show you the new stuff! He still uses his old dial phone, doesn't he?” She pushed the nachos down with beer. “So you don't know cellphones? Tablets? Streaming?”

Vergil held very still, too proud to admit to any further technological ignorance. How could he know any of this? The most he'd seen so far had been Nico's own flat-computer, or whatever these were called. Lady snort-laughed. She was enjoying this way too much for his taste, and the only advantage he could see from it was that she’d become less hostile to him.

“Oh, Vergil… Once you discover the internet of today, you’ll finally know _true power._ ”

She was mocking him, he knew that, knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait--not to snap back, and even less so to defend himself--and yet he couldn't help his eager, “I remember the Internet.”

Lady laughed again. “No, you really don't. Perhaps it's better that way.” She pushed the plate of nachos towards him again, and although he wasn’t really hungry, he picked one with plenty of olives. “Now find yourself a book to read or something. I don't want you staring at me while I work. That’s just creepy.”

She bent over her flat-computer, and he concluded she wasn't about to explain any of the things she'd named to him. Not that he wanted _her_ to be the one educating him on these things. With a sigh, Vergil retrieved his planner and flipped to the goals’ page again. Marker in hand, he added:

**Find money to pay back Lady quickly**

**Find out how much Dante owes her**

**Learn about new technology (ask Nico?)**

Truly, his list kept getting longer, and he didn't feel closer to accomplishing any of the items. He glanced up at Lady, browsing through her information or something. He hoped she'd have a lead for him, or he was back to square one.

 

###

 

“A library.”

The round and many-windowed little building didn't have the elegance Vergil had come to associate with libraries, but the sign on its outer wall was unequivocal about its function. Lady sniffed in displeasure.

“Believe me, it wasn't my top pick either. But I don’t choose where demons hide. People think this place is cursed, and if my info's good, they are right.” She was in full battle gear: white shorts and a top that bared her midriff, holsters filled with guns strapped everywhere, and Kalina Ann slung across her back. Plans to make the library crumble, that. “Fire ruined it two years ago. They rebuilt and refilled it, and the day after inauguration, pipes burst and it flooded. So they tried again last week, and one of the librarians was found dead, deep bite marks in her leg. The actual library is a few blocks down now, but the city doesn't even dare demolish this place, not with the rumours of noises at night and shadows in its windows.”

“So a councilman secretly hired a demon hunter to flush the evil out?”

Lady laughed at his obvious sneer. “Not even secretly. Images of the Qliphoth and its demons have been all over the world for more than a month now. Conspiracy theorists are going wild, but people can’t deny demons exist, even when they can’t agree on what they are. We’ve been busy cleaning your mess ever since the roots disintegrated.”

Vergil wrapped his fingers around the Yamato and opted not to reply to Lady’s last jab. If she was making a profit out of it, why was she complaining? “You think what’s in there is sufficiently powerful not to turn into ashes, leaving no trace behind?”

“Yep. I get my cut, you get the demon leftovers. And you can pay for the tip later.”

“Fair enough.” It was not remotely fair, but this was her job, and he felt more like an unwanted guest than a partner. As long as he retrieved a gift for Nico, however, he would let it slide. “Let’s get it over with.”

Lady’s smile grew fierce, she drew out a pistol, and jogged towards the entrance. Still the enthusiast about demon killing, clearly--she’d been just as eager to take on Urizen. He followed at a more moderate pace, coat billowing behind. Apart from a too-brief afternoon sparring with Dante away from civilization, he hadn’t fought since the demon train, and he was itching for some exercise.

The library turned out more spacious than he’d expected, with a large reading area in the center of the circular room, blanketed in pale moonlight from the skylight far above. Shelves spread out like spikes of a wheel from there, and two staircases on each side allowed patrons to reach a smaller second floor, while two others lead downstairs. It would have been a pleasant and airy location if not for the stench of smoke, must, and mould that cling to it, and the shredded tomes scattered across the floor and chairs. Some of the couches had huge slashes into them, or chunks missing as if bitten out. While the stains and stuffing humidity could have been explained by a flood, these absolutely could not. Vergil slid the Yamato out of its sheath just as Lady rose her pistol.

“Come on out, assholes,” she called. “We’re here to play.”

The air throughout the room shimmered, briefly iridescent, and loose sheets from the torn books lifted into the air. They twisted midair in strange ways, like wet paper clinging to a surface he couldn’t see, and as more began moving, Vergil realized they were attached to concealed demons. Interesting, but with their questionable fashion choice, the invisibility wouldn’t save them: Vergil knew exactly where to strike. How kind of them, to answer Lady’s challenge. Who knew you only needed to ask demons nicely for them to walk to their doom? His smile widening in anticipation, he raised the Yamato and sprinted down the entrance ramp.

In the library’s relative silence, the bang of Lady’s first shot startled him. Bullets zoomed past his head, sinking deep into invisible body with the usual sound of torn flesh and splattering blood. She quickly downed the three closest demons, and Vergil dashed to the left, leaving her a clear shot of the other half of the room. Even with three gone, it left him with an estimated eight demons to play with.

Leaping forward, he brought the Yamato in a wide arc to slice the demon across what he _thought_ was a shoulder of sorts, reveling in advance in the feeling of the blade biting flesh--then massive bullets caught its chest, sending it sprawling backward. Vergil’s sword barely skimmed it, but he buried his disappointment and spun around, smashing the Yamato’s scabbard into another demon-shaped pile of papers. Before he could follow up and stab it, three more bullets pierced through the sheets and sent them down. Vergil glanced back at Lady, who grinned and gestured at the remaining demons. What was she playing at? She’d already turned away from him, returning her attention to the other half of the room. With a huff, Vergil set himself on continuing the massacre on his end--or starting it, really.

This time, Lady’s first bullet caught the Yamato itself, pushing it briefly off course before she destroyed Vergil’s target demon in a hail of ammunition. He cursed, his admiration for her aim buried under growing frustration, and picked up the pace. Lady remained one step ahead of him, shooting down any demons he was intent on killing a split second before he reached it. Suppressing a cry of rage--he wouldn’t give her that satisfaction--Vergil brought forth several demon blades, allowing them to hover around his head as he chose his targets, some close, some all the way across the library hall. He stared directly at Lady and launched all of them simultaneously. She laughed and responded in kind, shooting every single blade with perfect aim and causing them to fizzle out or hit the ground, before putting a bullet in his target demons.

As the last demons fell, Vergil reached within him and slowed time, sprinted across the room and set Yamato’s blade an inch away from Lady’s throat.

“What game are you playing?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Me?” She tapped his blade away, eyebrows raised, then shrugged and answered playfully. “I’m just covering you!”

He slammed the Yamato back into its sheath. “You’re not. You’re stealing my kills!” Vergil forced his voice to remain steady despite the anger vibrating in it. She wanted to humiliate him and if lost control, she’d win. It shouldn’t matter; he could’ve frozen time to kill these paltry demons before her, if he’d wanted. But _her goal_ was to push him around, and that riled him more than he cared to admit. “What is the point of inviting me along if you’re not going to let me help?”

“What’s the point of inviting you along if I can’t have some fun with it?” She shoved her pistols back into their holsters and walked past him, towards the center of the room. “I never said I needed your help, Vergil. This is my job. You’re just here to pick up your junk gift.”

“Ah, so you’re putting on a show. Trying to erase my last memories of you in a lib--” He never finished his sentence. Lady whirled around and shot three times in his directions. He flashed the Yamato out, slicing the bullets midair before they reached him, then glared at her. “And what was _that_ for?”

“Warning shots for you to shut the fuck up.” She stalked back towards him, fire in her eyes, and pointed her gun at his forehead. “I would kick your ass all the way back to Hell if it wasn’t for Dante. I don’t care what the others say. You’re not just V, you’re Urizen too, and people like you don’t care for redemption. I’ll never forget what you’ve done, whether recently or decades ago. _Someone_ has to remember.”

Vergil let the Yamato’s tip touch the ground and stared back at her--chin raised, defiant, radiating anger. She hadn’t changed that much after all, really, and it was almost reassuring to have Lady lash out at him the way he’d expected everyone to, even if she was endlessly frustrating. _People like you._ She meant like Arkham, of course--treacherous, irredeemable scum. But Arkham had sought power he had no claim on, out of nothing but personal hubris. Not that Vergil would waste a sliver of breath defending himself to her. He did not grovel, no matter how many guns she waved at him, or how close to his brain she kept them.

“I will not apologize for surviving where others could not.”

She pulled the trigger.

Brutal, blazing agony burst through his forehead, zapping through his entire body. It overwhelmed everything, set nerves aflame, screaming--pain, pain, _pain_ \--all of it so familiar, tearing at his body, eroding it piece by piece once again.

Cool power flooded through him, washing the pain away, leaving time and space beating within him, pulsing. Was it human blood he smelled? Yes. Human blood--power within easy reach. And he was parched for it, desperate to have more, to survive. But... no, it was… mixed. It was _his_ , and pain lanced back through his head as he returned to himself. He was staring at a ceiling, great bay windows showing the moon--the library.

Vergil blinked the confusion away. He was on the floor, on his back, his devil form fading. She had pulled the trigger.

Lady leaned forward, coming within his sight. “Whew! That was over twenty years in coming, but _damn_ it felt good.”

“You shot me!”

He regretted the outburst as it left his lips, scolding himself for his lack of self-control even though his body and mind still reeled from the brief brush with death.

“Dante always survives it,” she replied with a shrug.

Vergil pushed himself on an elbow, one hand holding his forehead, half-expecting a gigantic hole in it. “My skull feels like it’s going to explode.”

“It just did,” she pointed out. “Your brother never complains.”

Vergil glared at her and it required great efforts to rein back his voice into a semblance of controlled anger. “How often have you graced his forehead with bullets, exactly?”

Lady’s laughter was a hammer pounding through his brain. “We stopped counting a long time ago.”

What kind of relationship did Dante have with this woman anyway? Vergil rubbed his temple, and after a moment, he decided it was best not to question it. Lady and Dante could do whatever they wanted, as long as she didn’t imagine he’d take it without a word of complaint, too.

“Well, I’m not Dante--”

“To our great disappointment.”

“Do that again and I’ll rip _your_ arm off.”

Lady aimed the gun at his head again and smiled.

Vergil flung himself to the side, knowing she would shoot this time. The _bang_ echoed in his ears as he rolled, but it was almost buried under Lady’s surprised cry and the metallic crash of her many guns hitting the ground as she slammed into it.

Deep gouges had appeared in her left leg, and a trail of paper pages floated all the way from the basement to her, sketching a snake-like demon. She snapped a sawed off shotgun out and blasted at the thing, but instead of the wet sound of exploding flesh, her shot hit metal with a resounding _thunk_. Lady slammed two new shells in and shot again--this time, the demon let out a low-pitched keening and trashed, holding on tight to her leg as it did. It smashed her hard against the floor and while she still clung to her gun, her eyes were unfocused and she was obviously stunned.

Vergil’s gaze snapped to the Yamato, a few feet away, and he stretched his arm out. Too late, he noticed a different set of leaves nearby, a little off the ground, twitching. Powerful jaws snapped down on his arm, crunching bones and tearing flesh. He clenched his teeth through the renewed pain and arched his back, putting his feet under him enough to flip himself backward. His arm stayed firmly in the demon’s jaw, but Vergil landed on its head, or whatever body parts held those teeth--you never knew with demons.

The creature reared, lifting Vergil up with it, forcing him to hold on tight with his leg and bend forward, diminishing the strain on his arm. Briefly, he wondered if it would regrow, too, should this beast tear it off. Not that it would ever get the chance. Vergil slapped his free hand on top of the demon's head--a slimy, scaly surface--and reached within him, to all the broken, angry edges life had left him. The first blue blade emerged from his palm, slicing through the monster’s head. The others rained from above, over a dozen summoned swords plunging down. Most missed, some hit its strange armour, but several dug into the demons’ bodies and pinned them to the ground. His demonic ride turned to dust under him, freeing his arm, and Vergil twisted midair to land lightly on his feet. The bloodied holes in his arm were already starting to close.

Two of his swords had hit Lady’s demon, too, and it’d dropped her. She was already back on her feet, leaning against a shelf for support, bullets flying as she cribbled the creature with them. Vergil traced the paper clinging midair with his eyes, following the barely distinguishable shape across the room, to the stairs leading to the basement. Was it all one demon? Multiple heads of the same? What manner of absurd creature lay below? Vergil strode towards the basement, picking the Yamato back up on his way. Lady’s gunshots punctuated his steps, and he figured she could handle herself while he investigated. After all, she’d made quite a point of letting him know she didn’t need his help.

Vergil had almost reached the first step when he caught the first suspicious twitch of a page. A few of them lay along the steps, a foot off the ground, inching up little by little. Almost subtle. Vergil sped up his pace and broke into a sprint just as he reached the stairs, stretching out the Yamato on his right and allowing the tip of the blade to slice right through the demon as he ran down the stairs. He felt he sword go from flesh to armour and back to flesh several times, and with each transition to armour, a brief flash of green caught his attention. When he reached the basement proper and brought Yamato back before him, small green crystals clung to it.

“What are these?” he whispered, and tapped it gently.

His fingers turned numb, overwhelmed by a deep, intense feeling of _wrongness_ , of energy gone awry and twisted. He snapped his hand away and the crystals crumbled, leaving the Yamato’s blade clean and almost shining in the dim light. How strange. None of those crystal clung to the corpse behind him, though Vergil couldn't help wonder if the reason this one hadn't dusted like most demons was related. His hands hadn't betrayed him: the scales belonged to a serpentine demon. What he had mistaken for armour, however, was… pipes? Thick metal plates welded together and onto the scales in a cylindrical matter, with joints where other pipes should've joined them. None of it was an issue to the Yamato’s edge, but he could imagine how Lady's bullet would ricochet.

A brief slither behind him caught his ear, almost lost in the cacophony of Lady's continuous hail of bullets. Vergil tensed and tracked it, allowing the demon to slide closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and rob it of its victory. He loved this moment--the danger creeping in, the anticipation of a perfect counter, the perfect balance of skill and reflexes, all of him in harmony with the Yamato and his surroundings.

Vergil smiled. Any moment now…

A powerful explosion rocked the library, almost throwing him off his feet. The ceiling behind him cracked, and huge chunks of it came crashing down. Vergil skidded backward and up a few stairs as part of the basement collapsed on itself and on the demon he’d been about to cut into ribbons. Lady emerged through the cloud of dust, feet firmly planted into her own invisible snake, Kalina Ann still smoking in her hands.

“You finally managed to kill one, I see,” he said.

“Two.” She pointed to the snake demon dead under the rubble, now perfectly visible. The moonlight reflected off its scales, giving it a darker blue sheen. Lady jumped off her perch and crouched next to it, running her hand over the juncture with the pipe-armour. “I swear, demons keep getting weirder.”

As long as none of them looked like his three lost companions again, Vergil was not about to complain. He turned to what was left of the basement: bookshelves covered in mould, tables cracked into pieces, and clinging from the ceiling, multiple large water pipes. Some had also broken through the walls and hung there, their jagged edges lifeless. It reminded him of Qliphoth roots bursting out of buildings, eager for blood. At least there didn't seem to be any demons left. He'd have to see what he could harvest from their corpses.

Vergil was about to turn away when he caught a glint in a high-placed pipe--something reflecting the sliver of moonlight that made it through Lady's roof. He approached, and with every step closer, his stomach grew more unsettled, his skin more raw. Itches all over his arms. Whatever had caused the glint was buried under a slimy, black ooze he immediately recognized from the demon train. Vergil scowled and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket--no way he was going to touch this sludge if he could help it. As he stretched on his toes and reached for it, Lady burst out laughing.

“You’re awfully disdainful for someone who was pumping human blood in himself not two months ago.” She strode to another pipe, which also contained a thick layer of the ooze, and shoved his fingers into it. “What’s up? Afraid of a little sludge?”

Vergil rolled his eyes and opted to ignore her--until she flicked her fistful of slime his way in a wide arc. He jerked back, reflexes kicking in, and the ball of ooze flashed past him, smashing on the wall right behind and splattering on his cheek. It stung like hell, minuscule claws digging into his skin, and a surge of power coursed through Vergil, sending his heart into a frenzy and snatching his breath away. He stumbled forward and used the Yamato as a cane to stop a full fall. Vergil wiped his cheek clean with his sleeve, and the ooze clung to it, ripping away his skin as he removed it. The moment it was gone, however, the world stopped spinning and returned to normal, leaving Vergil dizzy and filled with a familiar sense of wrongness. He’d experienced this before, he knew it, but he couldn’t remember when.

Lady rolled his eyes as he pushed himself back up to his feet. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He glared at her. “Did it do nothing to you?”

“Do? It’s gunk.” She rose her still-dirty hand and flicked her fingers lazily. “There’s nothing to it… is it?”

Vergil pressed his lips together and touched his cheek. Should he tell her? Lady had proven antagonistic from start to finish, but she was an ally when it came to fighting demons. His tone casual, Vergil answered, “It must have reacted to my demon blood.”

He ignored Lady’s flat stare and reached once more for the object in the pipe. It was… a small book? Vergil carefully removed the ooze from the top and snorted as he glimpsed Edgar Allan Poe’s name on the spine. To his surprise, it hadn’t been reflecting the moonlight, but emitting its own pale white glow. Interesting… and perfect. Nico would enjoy the challenge of figuring out what was going on there.

“Is that your cut, then?” Lady asked, and the moment he nodded in agreement, she spun away and headed for the stairs. “Great. We got all we came for, now let’s get the hell out. No need to make this last.”

Vergil found himself in perfect agreement. At best, one could call this an interesting collaboration, but it had certainly not been agreeable by any measure. He gathered a few loose leaves to wrap around the black ooze, spread his handkerchief over the book as a second layer of protection, then followed Lady up the stairs.

Her earlier words echoed in his mind as they made their exit. _You’re Urizen, too._ She had meant it as an accusation, yet they brought him no guilt. If it had not been him reaching for the growing Qliphoth’s fruit, it would have been another demon. He could not bring himself to truly care about those who had perished in Red Grave City, and if that made him a monster, then so be it. Urizen lived within him, even now, an extension of Vergil’s power. It would never be gone, this thirst for more, this intense need to always become better, to surpass all others. Memories of V forced him to shift priorities, to reconsider the sacrifices made along the way, but the _desire_ for more and the pride in what he had, in who he was? They would never leave him. He _was_ Urizen, he always would be, too, and everyone was a fool to think otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a blast to write, I'm happy the queer headcanons are starting to show up, and we're now getting into Old Man Learns the Internet territory!! Also, hello, hints of a plot!
> 
> Sucky upkeep note: comments are now only for logged in users due to the continuation of nasty stuff. If you're enjoying the weekly updates and want to chat, please consider getting an account!


	7. Technovirgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil asks Nico for help with new technological developments and finds himself navigating the wonders of the Internet.

Vergil stood at the edge of a deserted parking lot, some distance away from the downtown museums and art galleries. It was late, and although a few stray cars remained parked, most people had cleared away when the local attractions had closed. The phone booth loomed before him, a greyish green instead of Redgrave’s bright red colours, and he stared at it, hesitant. He felt… foolish. Yet this had always worked before, so why not now? Why wouldn’t she come?

He picked up the receiver and slid two coins in. Nicoletta’s number had remained crystal clear in his memory despite so many other details blurring away, and he dialed it quickly. The familiar ring set his heart pumping, and he almost hung after the second, the silliness of it all getting to him. Then Nico’s muffled, disinterested voice answered.

“Y’ello, this is the Devil May Cry van.”

“Nicoletta.” His voice was rough, and he coughed to clear it. Perhaps he ought to have spent less time feeling ridiculous, and more thinking about what he’d say.

“Call me that again, pal, and I’ll find your location just to run you over.” The tired drawl in her voice had vanished. “Now what can I do for you? You need help? My primary demon hunter’s on break, but I got plenty of back ups I could send.”

Why would he need help? Vergil frowned--Nicoletta wasn’t making much sense. “It’s Vergil.”

“Woah, really?” He could almost see her straighten up on the other end of the line, and the thought of Nico removing her feet from the dashboard in a hurry, a goofy smile spreading on her face, brought him joy. He wondered if she really _was_ smiling. “Dude, your voice’s so wrong over the phone, it’s like… several octaves lower. So what can I do for you, V-man?”

“I’m downriver near the museums and I have a gift. Are you available?” Good thing he was on the phone, because he could feel himself redden. This _did_ sound like a date, and he hated it. Never in his life had he had any interest in romance. Time to clarify. “I envisioned a rapid meal between friends.”

“Sounds _amazing_. Way more interesting than this, huh--” She paused, and in the silence Vergil thought he heard small moans behind her. “--this movie I’m watching, yeah. Keep your ass steady, I’m coming for ya!”

The line cut, leaving him with his questions about the exact meaning of ‘keep your ass steady’ and the origin of the suspicious sounds in the background. Perhaps it was best not to have answers to either of these questions. Vergil placed the receiver back on the phone and left the cabin, stepping around it so he could lean against its side and enjoy its light. The summer night was warm and he could have gone without his coat had he wanted to. Vergil’s gaze lingered upward, towards the few stars visible despite their proximity to the city. He had missed those, in all his time in Hell, and it felt good to have them hang over his head once more. He retrieved his collection of William Blake’s poems and dove back in, letting the delicate words fill the time until Nico’s arrival.

She didn’t waste a second speeding through the city, and he’d barely begun to sink into the rhythm of Blake’s work when the van swerved around a corner, tires screeching. Vergil ignored her approach, preferring to finish his current reading of _Auguries of Innocence_. The van skidded to a brutal stop a few feet away from him and Nico passed her head through the window, but her mouth closed when she noticed he was reading. Some things were sacred between them. The moment he snapped the book close, however…

“Monsieur’s demon-hunting taxi is here!”

She pronounced _Monsieur_ all wrong, and it took Vergil every bit of control not to correct her. Exasperated but amused, he strode around the van and hopped into it. Little had changed since his last visit. Some of the pizza boxes had been cleaned out and in their stead was a strange half-finished game with wooden pieces and black or red marbles. He threw it a curious look then slid in the front seat, next to Nicoletta.

“So whatd’ya wanna eat, V-man?” she asked.

“Anything but pizza,” he blurted out. He wasn’t even that hungry, but the smell of pizza that clung to the office in permanence was starting to get to him. He needed something fresh and delicious, even if he wound up only eating a fraction of it. “I _have_ heard in my brief time on this earth that sushi became quite popular, even here in North America.”

He’d surmised it from the many Japanese-themed restaurants he had spotted in the month between Urizen’s rise and the events leading to his demise. Surely _some_ of these must be worthwhile?

“Uncooked fish it is!” Nico exclaimed, hitting the gas.

Vergil whirled on her. “Sushis are not only--”

“Don't get your panties in a twist, V-man. I get it, I know there's more to it than that. Cooking’s like gunsmithing. You can make basic ass guns all you want, or you can create absolute works of art.” She leaned closer to the wheel and peered at the streets. “Sadly I don't think they have any sushi masters in the area.”

“Any sushi will do.” He would not be hungry enough to appreciate high quality sushis anyway.

Vergil turned to look out the window as she drove through the streets, allowing his mind to wander. He'd spent the last days roaming through the city, trying to calm the flurry of his thoughts. So much of his mental energy was spent thinking about whether or not he should seek out Nero again, whether he was wanted or not, what was expected of him. The rest was spread between the dark ooze they'd found demon hunting and the even darker void that were his plans for the future. He ought to get to work on the other goals in his planner. It would occupy him, at least.

“Nicoletta…” His own voice surprised him, yet now that he’d started speaking, he found the rest of his words flowed easily. “That phone number won't work once you return to Europe, will it?”

“Afraid not.” She turned around a corner then glanced back at him. “You worried about talking to us? We can Skype.”

“Skype.” He had exactly zero idea what this could mean. But that had been on his list, hadn't it? Perhaps it was time to dive it and risk mockery. “What if I… If I told you I have never heard of it, or of your flat screen computer? Would you, perhaps, lend me help in the comprehending of these things?”

Nicoletta hit the brakes hard and he grabbed the handhold above his head before he smashed his forehead on the dashboard. She turned to face him fully, eyes wide. “Oh. My. God.” Under all that surprise was a hint of excitement. “That totally makes sense. You're a technovirgin! Untouched by the impurity of this world. _A-ma-zing!_ ”

He could have told her she had just won a million dollars, and she wouldn't have sounded more thrilled. It was, quite frankly, a little scary.

“It has been more than twenty years…” he said mildly.

“That's an eternity on the internet, buddy. But don't worry, I'll take care of you.” She cracked her knuckles and started the engine again. “So if I say ‘tablet’, you got not idea what I'm jabbering about?” He offered a slight shake of his head. She snorted. “Touchscreen? Cloud computing? Facetime? Social media? Memes?”

Vergil shook his head with every word. Certainly, he could guess at some of them--touchscreen, for example, made sense now that he'd seen this technology respond to Lady's and Nico's fingers. Everything else sounded like jargon, and he had a sinking feeling he would never learn it all. If he was to judge by how she clapped her hands in excitement, Nico seemed to think that was awesome. He withheld his own doubts.

“As you can see, I have much to learn about this world.”

“No kidding! But you're a smart guy, V-man. I bet you learn fast.”

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Especially when my pride is involved.”

Vergil could hardly believe he'd said that aloud, but Nico laughed again, which in turn made him mind the momentary absence of his inside voice a little less. She brought the van in a parking lot, right by a quaint little place by the name of Tora-Ya Sushi.

“This little joint here is a gem in the city. Japanese owners, delicious food, reasonable prices. You best remember the place if you love sushi, V-man.” Nico turned off the engine, grabbed her flat-screen computer, and jumped out of the van. He followed suit, eyes still on the delicate hiragana forming the name, a tiny hint of hunger tying his stomach. She eyed him, and added, “Nothing's gonna happen to the Yamato if you leave it in the van, y'know.”

Vergil hesitated. He knew, on some level, that it was completely ridiculous to bring the Yamato to the restaurant, yet it had barely left his side since he'd returned from Hell. Being separated from it as V had been a constant weigh on his mind and he had no desire to return there. But he was safe now, and he ought to learn to behave as a normal person. With a reluctant sigh, he placed it back inside the van.

Nico was already halfway to the restaurant, waving the screen. “This gonna be great! You pay me in food, buddy, and I’ll teach your old ass the tricks toddlers these days already know!”

Vergil hurried after Nico with long, purposeful strides, wondering why he always wound up paying for the others’ meals. Still. This was necessary. None of it was doing his pride any good, yet he found he didn’t _care_ as much around Nico. He had nothing to prove to her, no long history to weigh down their friendship with expectations, no uncertain future to carefully tend to. It was liberating.

Vergil’s lips curled into a smile and he sliced the air with a hand, responding to her in his best haughty voice “Watch me leave these toddlers behind--a speck of dust in the distance!”

Nico burst out laughing, loud and proud, and by the time they crossed the doorway and entered the restaurant, she had contaminated him, drawing a soft chuckle out of him.

****

###

****

Plates of sushi succeeded each others for hours while Vergil and Nico bent over her tablet, tapping ‘apps’ while she explained what they did to him. He hadn’t eaten this much since recovering his body, and at first he hadn’t noticed how many morsels--makis, nigiris, sashimis and so many more--he was consuming, too lost in Nico’s sprawling explanations. It boggled his mind, how much this thin pad could do. Computers were supposed to be massive and wired into everything. When he had summoned forth the Temen-ni-gru, these machines could barely communicate outside of a cabled network, and only if no one else picked up the phone. And now? Now he needed to reevaluate everything he knew, and it left him dizzy and a little stunned. Lady had been mocking him, yet when faced with the endless possibility of today’s internet, Vergil couldn’t help but think there was, indeed, true power there.

And people, according to Nicoletta, were using it to pull massive pranks on each other. She rattled a long list of websites with harmless names like ‘lemon party’ not to visit, advised against engaging in social media before he understood how that worked--and he wasn’t about to start trying--and also told him not to trust most of what he read on there unless he knew the source. Not that he knew _any_ sources, at this point, so the lesson was basically not to trust anything or anyone. Easy enough.

“As a baby internet user,” Nico went on, her tone overly dramatic, “you gotta ward yourself against the many dangers of these unknown lands.”

Vergil snorted; they were only words on a screen and he had survived Mundus’s hordes and his corruption, but he went along anyway. “Is there any place safe in these dangerous territories, then?”

Nico looked at him with a frown, and for the first time he felt evaluated-- _judged_ \--by her. He froze, holding his breath. “You like knowledge, dontcha?” At his slight nod, her face broke into a grin and the vice around Vergil’s lungs lessened. “Then I got just the thing for ya! It’s time for your test, pal.” She pushed the tablet towards him. “Use google to find wikipedia, then explain to me what that is.”

Those certainly were a lot of words he’d never heard before today. Vergil stared at the shining screen before him, reset to its original state--home screen, Nico had called it. He scanned the many symbols on it, fingers hovering above the touchscreen.

“Those are internet things, are they not?” he asked.

“I ain’t helping you, V-man.” Nico crossed her arms and leaned back.

Vergil sighed. She wouldn’t have given him an impossible challenge. He just needed to focus and take things one at a time. There had been so much information, but he’d been there before, in his initial research about the hellgates and the Temen-ni-gru. If he worked in segments, he would achieve the intended results. So first: Google. If Nico had told him to use it, it must be some sort of program, right? _‘App’_ , he reminded himself as he methodically examined each of the icons. She had so many! At least they had names under, and… were they...?--Vergil’s heart jumped and he smirked: they were in alphabetical order! With a smug smile, he skipped to ‘G’, found the colourful logo, and triumphantly tapped it.

“You cannot escape me, Google,” he whispered to the tablet.

Nico laugh-snorted by his side, but when he glared at her, she lifted her palms and declined any comment. Vergil returned his attention to the new screen in front of him--mostly white, with an empty bar and information on the lower half. The bar was familiar: _his_ internet had had search tools, too, and hadn’t Nico mentioned that being Google’s first big thing? Right, she’d said something about a spreading technocorporation and it being everywhere, and how if people answered his question with “google it”, they meant for him to look things up and stop bothering them. He went to tap the bar and noticed it had instructions for him.

 _Say ‘OK Google’_.

Curious. Nico had said nothing of verbal commands. He glanced at her and cleared his throat, feeling utterly foolish.

“OK Google?”

Nico choked down another laugh as the screen changed to a simple instruction: _How can I help?_ Vergil stared at it, baffled, as the tablet literally voiced those words, aloud, in the restaurant.

“Nicoletta, it's talking back.”

At the sound of his voice, the tablet emitted a low ping and the screen moved again. On the top right corner was now a small circle with Nico's face, linked to a bubble saying “talking back”. Under it, a blue headline suggested **How to Handle A Child Who is Talking Back**. Nico burst out laughing, unable to contain herself.

“They got specific instructions for children who can kick your ass to heaven and hell? ‘Cause you could sure use that.”

Vergil stared at the screen, still unsure what had happened. His cheeks had flushed from embarrassment and he scrambled to remember how to return to the home screen and go back. He’d had such a good start! Vergil tried to push the screen away--swipe, Nico had said--but it stuck there, his failure staring back at him. With a frustrated sigh, he set the tablet down and leaned backward against the chair.

“This is pointless.”

That killed Nico’s laughter quickly. She wiped the corner of her eyes. “‘Course not. The whole world runs on this stuff, V-man. You gotta learn. Just… leave the vocal commands for later. You don’t gotta say OK Google--”

The tablet beeped. “ _How can I help?_ ”

“I ain’t talkin’ to you!” Nico exclaimed. “Shut up.”

 _“That is not very polite.”_ It answered, before powering down.

“Ugh!” Nico threw her arms up. “I swear, we’re already just one step away from the robot rebellion. Let me start you over.”

She tapped a flurry of commands on the tablet, unlocking it and closing down apps, and they were back to the homescreen. He hadn't followed every movement and it was increasingly obvious he didn't understand most of this yet. Still, when she handed him the tablet again, he quickly opened the Google program. This time, he tapped the search bar as he’d first intended, and a keyboard appeared. Vergil hesitated, then spelled out **W-E-E-K-Y-P-E-D-I-A**. Nico's muffled squeal told him it was wrong, but he hit ‘search’ anyway, and a new page loaded.

The first thing google told him was _Did you mean: wikipedia_. He probably had, but it didn't matter. Under it, in bright blue letters he knew meant a hyperlink from his limited experience, was the same word. Wikipedia.

“A free online encyclopedia?” he read aloud before tapping it. A sphere made of puzzle pieces with greek letters stared back at him. Multiple languages surrounded it.

“You got it!” Nico raised a hand, palm flat out, staring at him expectantly. Vergil’s gaze from it, to Nico, his confusion rising until her desire finally clicked. With a slight smile, he went and slowly clapped his own palm in hers. She pouted. “Am I gonna have to teach you proper high-five manners too, V-man?”

“That… won’t be necessary.” He returned his attention to the screen before him. “What _is_ this?”

“This, my good dude, is the whole world’s knowledge right at the tip of your fingers. A goddamn miracle of technology, if you ask me.” She moved closer to him, leaning over him, and touched the search bar, opening up the keyboard. “Here, search something!”

Vergil didn’t move--it was taking all his strength not to bolt. He could feel Nico’s warmth through his coat, too close, dangerously so. His breath had shortened and it felt like his skin was burning where she hovered into his space. No one was allowed this close--no one except Dante. Slowly, his voice tight from the brutal control he was imposing his body, he said, “Nicoletta. Please move away.”

“Oh shit--” She immediately moved away, hands up in the air. “Sorry pal, I hadn’t realized…”

She trailed off when he didn’t react. Vergil wanted to tell her it was all right, but he didn’t trust his voice yet. He focused on his breathing, on the rapidity with which she acceded to his request, and on the screen before him, trying to convince his body and mind he was in no danger. When finally most of his tension eased, he glanced at Nico. She stared right back at him, obviously concerned.

“The whole world’s knowledge, you said?” He had to admit, he was intrigued. How much information could a single website contain? Nico was prone to exaggerations, surely it wasn’t that comprehensive. But Vergil had always loved to learn, and although he had spent most of his life bending that love towards his goals, it hadn’t vanished when his plans had fallen through.

“Test it!”

And so, because it had ruled so much of his life, because it was at the core of who he was and all he had tried to accomplish before, Vergil typed in **Sparda** and hit search.

A page came up. On the side, a statue in the likeness of his father, demon horns sprouting from his helmet, the Sparda held proudly up. The details were all wrong, of course, twisted through millenias of legend, but it didn’t stop Vergil’s throat from tightening. He glanced at the text explaining the legend of Sparda and detailing the clues left in this world that it might be real. The information barely touched the surface of what could be found in obscure and dusty tomes, when one knew how to look, but for a general summary it was fairly accurate. Vergil set his finger on the screen and slid it up, _scrolling_ through the page to see what else it contained, and almost choked in surprise.

_Legend says that Sparda had two sons. Until recently, these were only rumours, but many have since concluded that the legendary demon hunter, Dante, is none other than one of the two [citation needed]._

And Dante’s name was in blue. Blue meant link. His heart hammering, Vergil tapped it.

The tablet quickly loaded an image of his brother, his beloved red coat spread wide open, bare-chested under it, the Rebellion on his shoulders. He was grinning and pointing at something off screen, looking more like a goof than a legendary demon hunter--exactly as he’d have wanted it.

Nico whistled by his side. “Oh. My. God. Can’t believe Dante has his own page! He’s like a star or something!”

Information on him was sparse, almost all ear-marked as in need of citations, and Vergil doubted any of it would be useful to outsiders. He kept scanning it, knowing he was pointlessly looking for his name, but the only hint of his existence was the speculation about Sparda’s sons. He huffed.

“Whoever wrote this has no idea of who we are.”

“Well, duh. Until you summoned a monstrous human-blood-sucking root in Red Grave, the whole demon thing was kinda under wraps, y’know? They’d even managed to pass off your first fancy tower as a movie set. I think people didn’t really want to know.”

They did now. He had made sure of that, however tangentially. “Should we not send a correction? They seem to require more citations.”

“S’not how it works,” Nico said. “In theory everyone can edit, if you got what it takes to back your claim. We can try? I’m used to it--I’m always correcting some pissbaby’s wrong claims about guns he only thinks he knows. These men, they think just because they held a gun, they understand its spirit? But they ain’t ever build one with their own hands, and they don’t know shit.”

She moved away from Dante’s page as she spoke, entering information within the tablet until it let her access what looked like a backstage area. A few more taps, and the text of Dante’s page stood before him.

“So, whadd’ya wanna edit?”

“I can… I can write anything?”

“Yup. But if it’s no good, it won’t stick for long. People revise.”

“Anything,” he repeated, and suddenly all thoughts of rewriting the page for it to be accurate and proper flew out of this mind. Vergil smiled, slightly light-headed with this small-scale, petty amount of power. He moved to the top of Dante’s page, so the text would appear next to the picture of him.

_Despite his tremendous power, Dante remains the weaker of the two sons of Sparda._

He handed the tablet back to Nico with a self-satisfied smirk. “Here. The only truth that matters.”

Nico laughed the moment she read, drawing out stares from many of the restaurants customers, and hit the Publish button without the slightest hesitation. The page loaded back, Vergil’s new text proudly displayed at the top. As it should be.

“This is too good,” Nico said, and she pressed a button on the tablet, causing it to emit a small camera-like click. “Saving this for posterity. Do you want it?”

“It?” He had no idea what she had just done. It sounded like she was keeping a record of some sort, but…

“The screenshot,” Nico said. She must have caught his continuous confusion, then, because she added, “I got a picture of this screen. I could e-mail it to you, so you’d have it forever. You could look at it even when it gets removed from Wikipedia proper. It’s like a digital photo!”

“Could I print it? Frame it?”

Nico spread her arms with a wide grin. “My man, once you got the image, the possibilities are endless.”

Vergil stared at the edited wikipedia page on the tablet, his mind spinning. When he spoke again, he kept his voice steady and serious. “Most excellent. In this case, I believe I will once more require your assistance--both for your technical prowess and your… destructive imagination. Starting with the means for me to acquire this ‘screenshot’ of yours.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that.” She pressed her fist into an open palm and snapped the tablet up. “Let’s get to work.”

He was, Vergil knew, being childish. He certainly couldn’t remember when he had last wasted hours planning a prank, but if there was one thing he had plenty of these days, it was time. Besides, this was a learning project through which Nicoletta helped him master a new technology, and as long as he framed it in this fashion, he would not feel foolish for his decision to go through with it. One had to take pride in their own initiatives, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want it known that I actually stood in the middle of a busy bus stop talking to my phone with my best Vergil voice to see what it'd give me, and the search result? Is 100% what I got. Life's beautiful sometimes.


	8. Demons of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil finally gives his gift to Nico, and learns some new information about himself in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week, we're poking at the plot and having an unfortunate trip down Bad Memories Lane!

They ordered dessert while Nico demonstrated the staggering evolution of e-mails since Vergil had last touched them, and spent the rest of their time bent over the tablet, Nico enthusiastically building upon his very simple prank concept with dozens of ideas he could never hope to follow up on. He had been right: she had the means and the imagination to blow everything out of proportions, and he loved it. Before long, it became obvious they needed to note a few key elements down, and they returned to the van where he could get his planner.

They hijacked one of the many brainstorm pages at the end of the planner to make two lists: one of things to do, and one of things they would need. This was turning out to be quite the enterprise. When they finally had their bases covered, Nico leaned back against the couch and stretched out.

“This is gonna be _amazing._ ”

“I hope it's not too much of an imposition on your time…” So much of these required her help. He didn’t like to demand so much out of anyone.

“Are you kidding me?” She prodded his leg with the tip of her toes. “It can get _so_ boring when Nero's out hunting. This'll fill up my time. A pain in the ass to assemble, but I like a good challenge! Might help me make better Devil Breakers down the line.”

Vergil closed his eyes with a slight smile. He understood the thrill of a challenge all too well. “You and I… have more in common than most must think.”

“You bet! Only, I didn't need to go killlin’ thousands to be the best at what I do.”

Vergil froze, caught off guard by her words, even if her tone had remained casual. He let out a pensive ‘hm’, but otherwise forced himself to stay silent. Defending his path when it brought him so little regrets felt pointless and hypocritical, and from Nico it hadn't sounded like an accusation, more a statement of fact. Nico shuffled around, and he heard her rummaging through the chaos on the main table. A lighter flicked several times, and after one of Nico's grunts of frustration, Vergil peeked. She was desperately trying to get a flame, and failing.

“How are you so useless at this?” He snatched the lighter out of her hand in a quick move, then brought its flame and held it close for Nico. While she lit herself up, he added, “You shouldn't smoke.”

Nico's eyes flicked to him and she leaned back. “Ya got more in common with Nero than most people must think, too.” She blew the smoke straight at his face, forcing him to lean back and wave at the air. “Dontcha want to talk to him?”

Vergil’s gaze slid to the Yamato, its pommel barely visible from where it lay on the front seat. He still replayed his battle alongside Nero in his mind, musing on the ease with which they had completed each other on the field, ripping through the enemies. “Of course,” he said softly, “but does he?”

“He already told you that the first time, dumbass. Maybe it's time you act on it.” She pulled on her cigarette and, without leaving time to raise a protest regarding Nero's attitude the last time they met, changed the topic. “So what's the gift? Ain't that why you called me?”

Vergil was more than happy to accept the shift in the conversation. “Indeed.”

He sought the rough leather satchel he’d found buried in the many dusty cupboards of the Devil May Cry’s office and unloaded the gift on Nico’s cluttered table, careful to always keep his hands on the outside of the leather. The book itself was wrapped in a second protective fabric, but goo had still clung to it when Vergil had done that, and he had no intention of repeating his experience in the library. It now shimmered a pale white, and the light pierced through the fabric folds, illuminating the van.

“Hell yeah! Looks demonic!” She clapped her hands and snapped up the bundle, setting out for the back of the van and her work area, swinging over the counter instead of using its liftable partition. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” Had he needed one? Was the lack of occasion why Lady had thought he was _flirting_? Vergil swallowed hard, hoping Nico had no such illusions. “You gave me the planner. It felt… appropriate.”

“Gifts ain’t debts, V-man.” Nico set her hands on her hips, but before she could scold him and make this even more awkward, he rose a hand.

“I know. Just take it.”

Why was he so nervous about this? Everyone had agreed it was a good idea, and it was only Nico. Nothing hinged on this gift, but his heart had sped up and he tapped his index finger alongside his leg as discreetly as he could. Silly human emotions. It was still so hard to keep them under control, to keep a level head and a clarity of mind. He missed it, the drive of his youth, the confidence in his path, the ability to stay a step ahead of his emotions, but it had long since crumbled away, little by little. Starting, if he was honest, with his last fight with Dante, feet in the underworld’s waterfall, his defeat imminent--not that he would ever admit it, especially to Dante himself.

Nico had laid out his package on her counter and was now poking at it with a long slim blade. She used its tip to lift the fabric under and peek. “Grooooss. That goo looks absolutely disgusting, V-man. I love it!”

It clung to the fabric as she lifted the rough layers he'd wrapped around, causing her to whistle and hoot at regular interval. Vergil watched her reaction the first time it touched her, but she neither frowned nor froze. In fact, she grinned harder and her enthusiasm redoubled. Soon enough, the shape of his gift emerged.

“Is that a book? Didja find me demonic Blake poems?”

“Unfortunately, it isn't as profound as Blake.”

Nico snorted. “Can’t wait to see who you just trashed like that!”

One hand holding the book firm, she set the blade against it to scrap the black ooze from its cover. Instead of resisting her, the thick, sticky goo melted away from the knife, giving way so fast Nico sliced right through and nicked her index fingers. Vergil jerked forward as she snatched her hand back with a pain cry.

“Are you all right?” he asked, forcing his shoulders to relax and his hands to unclench. This was just a cut. He had no reason to tense like this.

“Yeah yeah, that’s almost nothing!” She showed him the cut, a small red line with just a few drops of blood pearling along its length, then dismissively flicked her fingers and set the drops flying.

A few landed into the black ooze and it sprang to life. Half of it spiked upward, wrapping itself around Nico’s hand as if it meant to eat it, while the rest sank directly into the book. Nico tried to shake it away with an insulted “Woah, hey, what the fuck, buddy? You tryin’ to suck that blood?”--and that, really, was all Vergil needed to hear. Human blood. It was absorbing human blood. The Yamato came out in a flash, cutting cleanly through the ooze and separating the part attached to Nico from the book. He swung it three more times, slicing around Nico’s fingers despite her flailing and destroying most of the black slime. As he slid the Yamato back into its sheath, he noticed the sickly-green crystals along its blade, already dissipating.

Nico stared at him, wide-eyed, her now-clean hand still hanging mid air. “Woah. That was _so cool_ **.** All you Spardas are so intense!” She examined her hand, until movement from below caught their attention.

The letters forming Edgar Allan Poe’s name crawled towards another on top of the cover, forming a bulging black vein. Several more appeared, wrapping around the book’s spine, and eventually the pages cracked open, revealing black spikes strangely reminiscent of Shadow’s shifting form. A vice tightened over Vergil’s heart at the similarity, and only Nico’s fascination held him back from conjuring a blue shard to destroy the book with. She leaned forward, crouching to be almost eye level with the book’s gnawish teeth.

“It’s coming to life!” she exclaimed, clearly thrilled. It snapped at her. “Hold it down, V-man, before it tries and take my hand.” His eyebrows shot up--it certainly would try to take _his_ hand. Faced with his hesitation, Nico scoffed. “C’mon, ain’t you the demon king? Make your subject submit, bud.”

An uncertain smile flicked across Vergil’s face. Was he still the Demon King? Certainly, no one had tried to claim the position by defeating him, but he’d left the demon world to its own devices. They would be destroying each other over the position, miserable creatures deprived of the Qliphoth’s power and locked in an endless struggle. Under him, they would have had a direction, a goal, and… whatever, really. Vergil forced the thoughts away. Other demons could try their hand at this, for all he cared. They would always find Sparda’s lineage in their way. Vergil conjured a slim blade and brutally slammed it through the book, pinning it down.

“There,” he said, his voice more rough than he’d intended.

Nico retrieved a thick vice and set it around the book, tightening it until it pressed hard on it and held it fast to the counter. When it felt secure, Vergil allowed his blade to dissipate.

“That’s an awesome gift, V-man. Can’t wait to see what I can get out of this thing!”

She started speculating about the book’s properties and magic, and what kind of weapon she could derive from it, but Vergil’s mind had remained entirely preoccupied by its origin. “Most demons form their own body,” he blurted out. “This one… this ooze… it instead possessed an existing object.”

Like the train’s engine, which had been entirely soaked in this substance, and the library’s pipes, leaking it. He had to wonder if Dante’s roller-coaster demon had been the same, and why they had encountered so many of them recently. What demon powers went into that ooze? Were those specific creatures? Had the car-made Nightmare look-alike _been_ Nightmare? The thought made him nauseous, and he set a hand on the counter to hold himself steady.

“Yeah, that ain’t a first.” Nico could not have been more casual if she’d wanted to. Did she not realize demons didn’t naturally behave like this? “My asshole daddy used to do create artificial demons, too. He perfected the technique. We lost the detailed notes, but I got a passage that said he used pieces of a demon--some infamous black angel or something--to animate armours.”

The floor briefly vanished under Vergil’s feet and he set his second hand on the counter, catching himself. _Some infamous black angel or something_. “W-when?”

“Five years ago, maybe more? I don’t know when he started.”

She’d retrieved a miniature lightning rod and was zapping the demon book with it, observing its reaction, too absorbed to look at Vergil. His thoughts had turned into a whirlwind of questions, leaving him sick and unmoored. Phantom pain crawled through his muscles, memories of a body reforming, piece by piece, of his soul crawling its way back where it belonged. Was the black angel him? Had pieces of his soul been stolen, used to animate pedestrian armours in Fortuna? Was that why he’d reemerged already broken, still corrupted by Mundus, crumbling more with every passing day?

“Nicoletta.” He forced his eyes to focus on her. He needed to stay in the here and now, to stop his mind from drifting too far away. “Do the armours exist still?”

Could he regain what had been stolen?

“Nah, pretty sure Nero and Dante reduced them all into tiny pieces. If there’s any left, I ain’t heard of them, and that’s best for everyone.” She looked up then, and frowned. “You look like a ghost licked your balls, V-man.”

The expression shocked some of his daze away, but it didn’t last, the slow, grinding horror crawling back in. Someone had used him, had used _his soul_ , and he hadn’t even known? How much had been done to him, without knowledge, without consent, without even a chance to fight back? “What happened to these pieces of souls, Nico?”

“No clue.” She set her zapping road down and crossed her arms. “C’mon, something’s got ya all upset. I ain’t daft, I know it’s got to do with all this.”

Vergil inclined his head, a subtle admission that she was right. His body and mind were buzzing, raw from the violation. His hand slid to the Yamato and he thumbed the relief of its pommel, grounding himself in the familiar pattern. He was here now, with his sword, away from Mundus and the years of painful servitude--away from the powerlessness, the submission, the defeat. He had found his way back to power, through V and Urizen both, and he would never allow himself to sink so low again.

“The black angel is not any demon.” The steadiness in his voice surprised him and strengthened his resolve. He could tell her this calmly, concealing the truth of the experience. “He was created by Mundus, the Prince of Demons, by corrupting another warrior, encasing him in an armour--a prison, really--and subjugating his will.” Spikes of pain digging into his body, his veins, his mind. Powered, he suspected, by the human part of his blood, feeding the demon within. Vergil’s grip tightened on the Yamato and he closed his eyes, trying to chase away the echoes of memories dancing before them. “This became Nelo Angelo, the black angel, and he served for years, lost unto himself… until Dante defeated him on Mallet Island. My memories of that time are fuzzy and unpleasant, but…” He reopened his eyes and was relieved to be back in the van, with its familiar clutter and the lingering scent of smoke. “I was Nelo Angelo. Your father used _my_ soul.”

The silence stretched on, heavy. For once, Nico seemed at a loss of what to say. She summarized her feelings with a single, heartfelt word.

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

He forced a deep breath in. This was not how he had expected the evening to end, but exhaustion quickly replaced the undesired memories slowly crawling away.

“I’m glad you appreciate the gift, and I hope you’ll learn much from it. I… certainly did.” The demon book was still struggling against the vice holding it, and a pang of pity for it coursed through Vergil. He stomped it out. If he was right, this book was an abomination, a demon’s soul infused into the wrong body, deprived of its own. “Keep me abreast of your findings, please.”

He stepped away from it and the counter, striding to the van’s sliding door and jumping out. Nico scrambled after him and leaned out. “Hey, wait! Dontcha want a lift home?”

Vergil shook his head without looking back. “I’ll walk.”

“But--”

“Nicoletta,” he interrupted, her name a whip cracking the night’s air. “Thank you, but I need this time alone. I’ll walk.”

He started off without waiting for her response, the summer breeze clinging at his cloak and refreshing his mind. In the end, Nico let him go without another word, and he was thankful for the space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the DMC4 monster entries for providing such great material LOL (I did go from 'pieces of armour' to his actual soul but shhhh)


	9. Midnight Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero brings a drunken Dante back home, only to find out his father is awake in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter because it has a little bit of everything <3

Dante’s legs barely held him up anymore, and Nero was left to carry the rest of his weight. Why did these nights always end up like this? His own brain was woozy from the multiple fireball shooters he’d ingested, but he was once more stuck with a drunken demon hunter to carry home. At least the steady summer wind helped clear his mind. Dante had slung a hand over his shoulder and with a wide, slanted grin, he mumbled, “Fly me home, nephew.”

“Fuck no.” He wasn’t going to spring wings in the middle of the city. He wasn’t _that_ drunk.

“Like a princess,” Dante insisted, and he jumped up. Nero’s blue wings shimmered into existence by reflex, catching Dante before his ass could hit the asphalt hard.

“Fucking hell, Dante!”

“It’s Uncle Dante to you.” Dante booped his nose, then leaned his head against Nero’s shoulder and whispered “And ain’t that the best thing.”

Nero’s frustration drained away, unable to resist Dante’s casual affection. He’d spent years convinced the man was his father--nothing else had made sense, considering the number of demons he hunted that rambled on about Nero’s Sparda blood and their shared propensity for hotheadedness--but he might like goofy uncle better. It removed his complicated anger at Dante for abandoning him in the first place and never having the courage to admit the truth now that they’d met again. No, Uncle Dante was good: he could put all the blame on Vergil’s shoulders, which left him free to love and admire Dante fully. Even when he was being a high-maintenance drunk.

“All right, Princess. Guess I’m really flying you home.”

He switched arms, settling Dante in his very human ones, and spread the blue wings out. With a quick starting sprint, Nero leaped into the air, propelling himself upward. He landed on the nearest roof and kept running, the wind swirling around him, a wide grin spreading across his face. Nero didn’t so much fly as jump from roof to roof, the wings helping him gain height, his arm sometimes flying out to grab a ledge and pull him forward. He held on tight to Dante, occasionally switching his position to that of a potato sack, as he moved effortlessly through the city, running along building walls, swinging himself off lamp poles or jumping off high grounds to catch himself at the last minute. This was _awesome_. He was motherfucking Spiderman, or close enough that it didn’t matter.

By the time he landed in front of the Devil May Cry office, Nero was out of breath and exhilarated. His arms ached from carrying Dante, who had somehow slept through the entire ride, and he’d emptied any reserves of energy left from using his demon powers so much, but damn, he had to do this again some day. Maybe he could take the kids from the orphanage on a ride. He and Kyrie had slowly started introducing them to the reality of demons, in case blowback from his job ever came knocking and they needed to run, and they loved his demon arms. Still, Nero hoped it’d never come to that. He set the darker thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand and kicked the Devil May Cry’s door opened.

Over the ruckus of the door slamming the wall, Nero heard the soft whisper of a sword unsheathed. He immediately fell into a fighting crouch, only to find himself facing Vergil, already lowering the Yamato. Fuck, he’d totally forgotten the office wouldn’t be empty.

“What happened?” Vergil stared at him, impassive, but obvious worry had tied a knot into his voice.

“One drink too many,” Nero said. “No big deal, he’s just passed out from alcohol.”

“Ah.” Vergil sheathed the Yamato back, but his frown deepened. “Wait. You outdrank Dante?”

A startled laugh escaped Nero. That was absurd. No one outdrank Dante! “Of course not. He outdrank himself, as usual.”

“As usual.”

Vergil repeated the word with more than a hint of disapproval, and Nero glared at him. Was this asshole really going to throw a fit over Dante’s irregular alcohol binge when he’d killed thousands for a taste of power? One word and Nero was going to kick his ass all over again. Anger pumped through his legs as he strode past Vergil and set Dante gently down on the couch. He could feel the brother’s eyes follow him every step of the way.

“It’s only when I’m around,” he dropped, unable not to defend Dante. “He knows it’s safe. I can handle him.”

“Ah.”

That sound again, that little meaningless exclamation! Nero’s toes curled up from frustration. How did Vergil manage to be so annoying while doing so little? Nero spun about and wiped his nose. “Why don’t you go upstairs and make sure he’s got no half-open pizza box on his bed while I get him ready? Make yourself useful.”

Surprise flicked through Vergil’s expression, but he quickly got it under control. “Right. Of course.” With an almost solemn nod, he left Nero’s side and climbed the office’s stairs two by two, hurrying out of the main room and towards Dante’s room.

The moment he was out of sight, Nero breathed easier. He ought to stay calmer when Vergil was around, but he couldn’t help himself. Everything clenched within him at his sight, anger and hope tying down his ability to regulate his emotions. The man made him want to punch something--his face, preferably--and Vergil’s own ability to contain whatever he thought into a few ‘ah’ only made it all worse. He turned towards Dante, still unconscious, an easy smile hanging to his lips.

“Your brother’s an ass, Uncle Dante,” he said softly.

He crouched down in front of the couch and started pulling on the straps holding Dante’s boots. This was almost a ritual for him, and by now he had a very clear routine of what he removed and in what order. Every time he visited from Fortuna, he went into town with Dante and they cleared out a pub’s stock of whiskey together. Nero drank, but never as much as Dante, who seemed to relish the opportunity to lose it completely. At least it meant Dante was too drunk to pick up their bill; he had enough money problems without fronting for these nights. They always wound up back to the Devil May Cry headquarters, with Dante sprawled on the couch in various state of non-responsiveness while Nero removed his superfluous clothes. Nero pulled off the first boot, then the second, his nose scrunching up at the stink of Dante’s feet. Those socks were _definitely_ staying on.

So were the pants, for that matter. It’s not like Dante didn’t spend half his life sleeping fully-clothed, anyway. Nero knew he could’ve dropped him onto the couch and left, and he’d never receive a word of complaint about it. It never felt right, though. Maybe he just liked taking care of the big goof. It’s not like anyone else ever did, really, not like this.

Nero brought forth his two wing-arms again, gently lifting Dante from the couch while his human hands reached for the red coat and slowly pulled it off, one sleeve at a time, then the whole thing away from the couch. He threw it backward without looking, focused on how he handled Dante in the hopes he’d remain asleep, and startled when he heard the characteristic sound of the coat being caught mid air. Vergil stood a few feet behind.

“The bed is ready.”

His voice had changed, the usual pinched edge gone, replaced by a layer of softness. Had he been watching? For how long? Nero flushed and cleared his throat.

“G-good. Great, even.” Fuck, he needed to get himself under control, but something in Vergil’s piercing blue gaze was getting under his skin and throwing him off his game. “Let’s get him up there.”

“Do his gloves stay on, then?” Vergil asked, a slight frown breaking his perfect mask. Shit, Nero had forgotten that. It must have shown on his face, because Vergil moved in, quick as lightning, with a simple “Allow me.”

Vergil removed the gloves as he fought: quick, efficient, no movement wasted, and a certain grace to all of it. But as Nero watched him loosen every finger one by one, peel the leather away from Dante’s palm before finally tugging the glove away, he noticed something otherwise absent from Vergil’s battle stance. Something like awe or disbelief, held on a tight leash and contained, revealed only in the quick glances he threw at Dante, or the way his hand reflexively reached for his brother’s white hair to push it out of his face. Nero felt like an intruder, and it took him several seconds to realize Vergil had stepped back once more and waited, holding both the cloak and leather gloves.

They exchanged brief nods, and Vergil took off again, his coat flapping with the sudden movement. He climbed the stairs in purposeful strides, as if escorting Dante to his bed was the most important mission he’d received all night. Nero followed with Dante, weighed by the prolonged silence. This entire encounter was just too weird, and he was ready for it to be over. He took the stairs two by two, leaping over the three lasts.

Dante’s room was surprisingly clean. Or, no, not clean. Even in the dim light, Nero could spot stains on the wall and collected dust in the corners--the kind of stuff that would’ve Kyrie scold him thoroughly if he ever let it go this bad. But it was _in order_ , which was unusual enough on its own. Nero’s gaze swiped across the cleared floor, to the now-closed closet door, and then back at Vergil, standing stiff by the bed’s side. And it became strikingly obvious what had happened to Dante’s mess, and why, and Nero’s full laughter bubbled up before he could hold it back.

“Did you--” He stopped, still laughing, desperate to calm himself before he finally woke Dante. Nero briefly bit on his own hand, allowing the worst of his hilarity to pass. “You cleaned up so I wouldn’t see the mess!”

“I…”

Vergil spread out his hands, at an obvious loss for words, and he was _blushing_. Nero had to wipe tears away. And now that he had the damn man off-guard, he wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

“Are you, like, protecting his honour as a cleanly man? You know he has none of that and wouldn’t care for it.”

He walked into the room and placed Dante on his bed, before turning towards the closet. He was going to swing those doors wide open and let all the damn mess out, as it should be. Vergil guessed at his intention, and Nero sensed the distortion in time as he near-teleported to stand between him and the closet’s door.

“Our job here is done,” Vergil claimed, spreading one arm out defensively.

Nero's eyebrows shot up. He stepped forward, bringing his wings behind him and spreading them out almost menacingly. “Is it? Maybe I think Dante needs an extra blanket.”

It was a hot summer night, Nero had set Dante down _atop_ his bed's sheets, and the man probably didn't even own extra blankets, but none of that stopped Vergil from answering. “That's not where--”

Nero’s demon hand flew to Vergil's shoulder before he could finish and gave him a firm shove, dislodging him from his guarding position. With the other arm, he pulled the closet open. An avalanche of detritus came falling down--clothes, empty pizza boxes, vinyls still thankfully in their sleeves, and, more than anything else, magazines of guns and naked ladies, often both together. Nero caught one as it flew, laughing at Vergil's obvious dismay.

“Is this what you wanted to hide?” He snapped it open, hanging it so that Vergil got a clear view of the content. “You realize I've seen most of those around, right? Half of them are Nico's. The girls and Dante, they like trading them. They have a very precise set of rules of what they're allowed to do with them, to keep them clean.”

Vergil spread a hand before the pages, blocking most of it from his view, but he was still very pointedly looking away. “That is completely unnecessary information for me to have, Nero!”

Nero snorted, but Vergil looked uneasy enough that he lowered the magazine and flicked it back onto the pile. “Not if you think you gotta hide Dante's porn from me. I already know more about it than I really care to.”

“Ah.”

There it was again, but for once, Nero could guess at what the exclamation hid. Vergil did not wish to continue this line of conversation and, frankly, neither did Nero.

“Let’s go back downstairs before we actually wake him up.”

Vergil agreed with a quick nod, then set the coat and gloves down on a chair’s back before he followed Nero out of the room. They left the renewed mess behind and crept down the stairs in silence. Nero’s own head was starting to pound for the multiple glasses of fireball and the long day awake. Sleep sounded like a terrific plan.

“I guess I’ll be heading back to the hotel. No point in staying if you’re around when he wakes up. Besides, you got my usual bed now.”

“I can take the couch.”

Vergil’s eager suggestion surprised Nero, and he turned away from the door, to examine him. He was leaning against Dante’s desk, his expression back to the usual mask, but his two of his fingers ran along the Yamato’s pommel in a distinctively nervous manner. Nero tilted his head aside.

“You don’t plan on sleeping, do you?” he asked.

The question startled Vergil, and his hand tightened around the Yamato. “Sleep is a luxury my mind refuses to pay for.”

Welp, if he had any hopes V’s tendency to answer in cryptic terms had not followed into Vergil, they were gone now. What did that even mean? That he couldn’t sleep? It made sense: the man had still been awake when Nero had barged in at the early hours of the morning. Most of the night was already gone.

“Nightmares?” he found himself asking.

“Of a sort,” Vergil said, “but not the kind I wish to discuss.”

“Suit yourself.”

Nero didn’t particularly want to hear it. He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked, except that it seemed the thing to do. It was becoming harder to think of Vergil as the man who had annihilated an entire city and ripped his arm off when he was also the brother who’d hidden his twin’s stash of porn to protect his reputation.

“Good night, Vergil,” he said, turning once more towards the door.

He had his hand on the handle when Vergil called his name, very softly, as if he wasn’t certain he’d wanted to be heard.

“Nero…”

Nero could have faked not hearing it, could have simply turned the handle and walked out, but his heart had jumped at the sound and he’d instinctively stopped. He looked over his shoulder, at his father, standing by the desk, tense and hesitant.

“Would you stay, regardless of whether Dante needs it?”

“What for?”

Nero’s heart hammered and he set a hand on his hip, to keep it steady. He knew what for, but he wanted to hear Vergil say it, to be certain. Hope was tightening around his chest, squeezing it so hard it made it difficult to breathe. Dante had rambled so much about Vergil tonight, about how his brother was an arrogant ass and he loved him nonetheless, about how he understood if Nero didn’t want to meet him, that he’d respect that. And Nero had loved that space Dante was willing to give him, and he’d said nothing, thinking it might be a good idea not to put up with Vergil at all, his father or not. Maybe it just wasn’t worth it, considering all he’d done. But now, waiting by that door, challenging Vergil to open up with a glare? Fuck, but he was dying for him to rise up to the challenge.

Vergil avoided his gaze, lips pressed, silent. Nero imagined himself flying across the room, lifting the stiff fucker with two beautiful blue arms, and yelling at him to _just say it, damn it._ Vergil’s pride would be the end of their non-existent relationship. Nero huffed, yet just as he was about to give up and leave, Vergil finally spoke.

“I would enjoy your company,” he said, his voice quiet in the heavy air, “though I understand the reverse may not be true.” He still wasn’t looking at Nero, but his hand drifted over the desk behind him, until he found his mother’s portrait. Vergil brushed his fingers around the frame. Nero thought he’d die with every second he let the pause stretch on. “Family first set me on my course, and… family brought it to a crashing end. _You_ did.” He set down the portrait and finally met Nero’s gaze, his blue eyes intense and searching. “Please… Stay.”

For all his insistence that Vergil finally voice what he wanted, Nero found himself completely unprepared to deal with it. He stammered for a moment, then flushed a deep red at his own emotional floundering. Nero slammed it all down, like his own arm had come inside of him and grinded the hope and fear and excitement into the ground.

“Okay. Sure.”

He’d managed to sound casual, but the relief flashing through Vergil’s expression tightened his throat. Nero forced his legs to work and allowed himself to crash into the couch. Vergil had watched him every step of the way, not even bothering with the pretense of casual conversation. He was vibrating with tension. Nero laid on his back and set his hands behind his head, opting to stare at the ceiling, which was definitely less intense.

“You had a topic in mind?” he asked. “I’m not spending hours in awkward silence.”

“Ah.”

Nero gritted his teeth. He would kill that ‘Ah’ then hunt its spirit in the demon world until Vergil never, ever uttered it again.

“I would like to hear of-of you, Nero.”

Nero’s gaze snapped to Vergil at the revealing stumble and his anger diffused a little. Still, that was one hell of a bold demand. “Not much to say. I grew up in an orphanage, I met Kyrie, I fought for a cult of fanatics who revered Sparda and tried to take over the world…” One who’d killed one half of his known family, searing grief into his life. Nero pushed the thought away and raised his right arm, now perfectly human. “Oh, I had a fancy demon arm once, but you made sure that didn’t last.”

Vergil’s hand went to the Yamato. “I did,” he said, and then silence returned to the room.

Nero propped himself up on an elbow and glared at him. What an utter asshole. “Fuck, dude, would it kill you to say sorry? You ripped my arm off!”

“Ah.”

 _Again._ Fury rose within Nero like a wave, and his skin crackled and hardened under its effect. He almost let it loose, a pulse of his strength to exterminate that cursed ‘Ah’, but Vergil followed it up swiftly.

“It was necessary but… I do apologize.”

Nero let out a long slow breath. _It was necessary_. For his evil grab of power, maybe! It was a shitty apology, but it was one at least, and he was too exhausted for this bullshit. He’d let it slide for now--not that he was ever going to accept that apology. “Let’s just change topic.”

“Yes… we seem to be off to a terrible start,” Vergil agreed.

“And whose fault is that?”

Vergil didn’t volunteer his name, but neither did he rebuke the idea. He looked at Nero without a word, and Nero promptly returned his attention to the ceiling. Maybe he should have left. This wasn’t going remotely well.

“Perhaps we could… make a trade. I reveal my plans to prank Dante and you, in exchange…” He trailed off, perhaps looking for a topic, “You could tell me about your wife?”

“We’re not married.” Did he want to tell Vergil about Kyrie? She was such an integral piece of his life, it almost felt like surrendering an intimate secret. But it wasn’t a fraught topic like everything else and it was always easy to talk about her and every facet of her perfection. He lost himself in his thoughts for a moment--enough that he only belatedly registered what Vergil had offered. “Wait, _you_ wanna prank Dante?”

“I enlisted Nico’s help and we have made extensive plans, yes.”

Well. Now Vergil had Nero’s attention. He sat up. “‘Kay, if you got Nico involved, it’s gonna be something to behold. All right, Vergil. You got yourself a deal. I want to hear about this prank, and I’ll tell you about Kyrie in exchange.”

Vergil extended a gloved hand, and a thin blue blade shimmered into existence. His tone entirely too casual, he said, “Perhaps we ought to seal it with blood.”

Nero scowled. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? Couldn’t he be normal for two small seconds, or was that too much to ask for? Vergil must have caught Nero’s sudden urge to slam his face into a wall, because he dropped his hand, the thin smile on his lips vanishing.

“Nevermind. It seems I need to readjust my sense of humour.”

“That was a joke?” he asked. Vergil knew how to make jokes? Nero wiped his nose, frustrated with Vergil’s twisted jibes and his own inability to see them for what they were. “Whatever. Just… just start.”

This time, Vergil complied without any further ‘jokes’, to Nero’s great relief. “I mean to redecorate the office.”

He gestured at the space around them, his smile slowly spreading, then backtracked and began his story at the start, with Nico’s tablet tutorial. Vergil spoke in a slow and low voice, as if he measured every word, choosing them with evident great care. The cadence was strikingly similar to V’s, and it had hid so many secrets from him before, Nero couldn’t help but wonder what Vergil _wasn’t_ telling. Perhaps it didn’t matter. He could always ask Nico if he thought it was important, but Nero suspected the secrets were hilariously humiliating technological mishaps. He kinda wished Vergil did include those. It’d make him so much more approachable than the statue of a man, leaning against Dante’s desk, detailing the birth of his prank in a halting but precise manner.

Then Vergil got to the actual prank and his demeanour changed completely. He leaned forward, sharp gestures accompanying his explanations, and he pointed at the areas of the office he meant to subject to his ‘redecoration’. It was a petty prank, one Nico had blown completely out of proportion, but the excited lilt in Vergil’s voice as he explained it dragged a smile out of Nero. He hoped Dante retaliated down the line, too. Any prank war between these two would quickly turn legendary.

“You’ll film it, right?” he blurted out, interrupting Vergil.

“Film it?” He sounded utterly confused. “How would I do that?”

“Any phone will do. It’s just for posterity. Oh, and for Kyrie. She likes to know what I’m up to when I’m away for long.”

“Any… phone?”

Clearly, Nero hadn’t helped his confusion with that. He really _was_ stuck twenty years in the past. “Yeah, cellphones? They do pretty much everything Nico’s tablet did, not just phone calls. You ought to get one. Not that you’ll ever convince Dante to get a wi-fi here. I’ve been trying for five damn years, but the bastard wants nothing to do with it.”

Vergil tilted his chin up. “I do not require Dante’s permission to install a… what did you call it?”

“Wi-fi.”

“Right.” He frowned, then looked around the room as if he needed to be certain the two of them were alone. “Might you, perhaps, elaborate on what that is?”

Nero almost choked. Shit, weren’t those around twenty years ago? They’d always existed to him and it was painfully hard to imagine a world without wireless internet. “It’s just internet, but without a cable.”

“Ah.” He clasped his hands together. The frown hadn’t vanished, and this time Nero understood what the ‘Ah’ was: Vergil was weighing whether or not he wanted to ask his next question. Maybe he thought this was humiliating and expected Nero to laugh, but it’d taken too much effort to get a civilized conversation out of Vergil. He wasn’t about to ruin it. Besides, this was ammunition for the next time he acted like an arrogant jerk. Nero smirked, and waited for the follow-up. Vergil breathed in deeply. “Could you… would you film it?”

“I’m gone in little more than a week, Vergil. We’re heading home.”

“I fail to see your point. I cannot achieve this without Nicoletta, and thus will finish before you leave.” He straightened and threw him an alarmed look. “Or are you leaving without her?”

“Yeah, just this once. It’s my anniversary with Kyrie, so I’m hitching a plane ride, but someone’s got to cross the damn ocean with the van. She’ll be tagging along shortly after on a boat.”

“Then I must make it happen faster, before you go.”

His fingers curled around the Yamato’s pommel and he squared his shoulders. Perhaps it was the night’s exhaustion kicking in, or the absurdity of Vergil’s solemn tone and posture over a prank’s timing, but the scene ripped a burst out laughter out of Nero. Fuck, this dude never did things halfway, did he? Then again, neither did Nero himself and Dante, so maybe it ran in the family.

“Nero…”

Vergil’s soft voice cut off his mirth. Hearing his name from his lips was a bright hot lance through him, yearning and fury twining into a choking ball of feeling. He glared at Vergil, whose posture had stiffened, grown even more prideful. When he spoke again, ice had seeped back into his voice.

“You’re in no way obligated to contribute or attend, of course. I must have misjudged your interest.”

He physically turned away, then, and Nero rolled his eyes hard and long. Fucking drama queen. Without moving from his seat, he flung his arm out, grabbed Vergil’s shoulder, and forcefully turned him back.

“Get over yourself. I’ll film your prank.” He crossed his arms and leaned back, deep into the couch. “And not everyone who’s laughing in your illustrious presence is laughing _at_ you, dumbass. You ought to find a ladder to climb down that fucking high horse of yours before pride kills every conversation we have together.”

Silence stretched between them, so heavy that Nero wished it was a physical thing so he could stab it. At least Vergil hadn’t given him one of his damned ‘ah’ again--you had to count your blessings with him. He stared at Nero, unreadable again, back to the masks and silence and everything else that made him so hard to like.

“I like height,” Vergil declared at last, lifting his chin.

Hot red anger bloomed in Nero’s chest. “Fucking hell--”

He interrupted himself just as he was about to jump to his feet, caught off-guard by the twitch of a smile on Vergil’s lips. The motherfucker.

“Was that another joke?”

“You think?”

Yep. Asshole was trolling him. Nero huffed and let himself fall back into the couch. “I _think_ you’re about to get punched in the face.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Yeah?”

Vergil gave him the slightest nod, and Nero was off. One human hand curling into a fist, he used the demon arms to propel himself across the room, adrenaline washing his exhaustion away. Vergil shimmered in blue, then vanished, and Nero heard the soft thump of his boots behind him. He dropped into a roll immediately, the Yamato’s scabbard _wooshing_ above his head. His blue fist grabbed Vergil’s extended wrist and yanked him forward, above Nero’s head, but Vergil twisted midair and landed on his feet, crouching to ease the shock on his legs.

They remained like this, crouched face to face, Nero holding Vergil’s wrist high. The Yamato’s tip touched the ground between them, still sheathed. Vergil smiled even as he strained against Nero’s grip.

“Some might say four arms give you an unfair advantage in a punching challenge.”

“So? You got a sword.”

“Just one?” Vergil asked, playful and deadly.

Nero’s heart jumped as blue swords shimmered into existence stabbed down into his demon arm. Pain jolted through it, gone as quick as it’d come--long enough for Vergil to jerk out of his grip and swipe at his legs with the Yamato. Nero kicked upward, arching his back as he spun in a flip. He landed on his hands and immediately pushed himself off again, using his regular arms--he’d caught sight of Vergil’s quick rush forward and had to use his left demon arm to block the Yamato’s precise strike. His other arm flew out in a quick punch as he landed from his flip, forcing Vergil to leap back and avoid the hit. They were back across the room from each other, panting.

“See?” Nero said. “You cheat too.”

An almost imperceptible shrug moved through Vergil. “No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.”

“Ah!” Fucking William Blake was back, then. Grinning, Nero sprang back into action before Vergil found another quote to sling at him. Vergil lunged forward, meeting him halfway with a wide horizontal swipe. Nero plunged into a feet-first slide at the last moment, barely avoiding the strike, his momentum carrying him into Vergil’s feet. He grabbed one right as the man jumped, but Vergil gave him no time to yank him down: a blue sword already appeared. Nero let go and rolled away before it could stab his demon arms a second time and came out of the evasive maneuver just in time to see Vergil appear mid air above.

“Fuck!”

No point in rolling away this late. He flung his arms out, catching the Yamato less than an inch from his face just as Vergil landed, one boot on each side of his head. They strained against each other, a contest of will as much as strength. The sword’s scabbard was slippery in his demon hands and the hard floor dig into Nero’s shoulder blades, but he was slowly pushing the Yamato away.

Dante’s centuries-old phone rang, its shrill ring piercing Nero’s ears.

Vergil’s head snapped up. He looked at the phone, then back at Nero, and they reached an immediate understanding: whoever answered first won. Nero pushed the Yamato back so hard it almost hit Vergil and used the sliver of surprise provoked to slam a fist into his chest, hampering his cheaty teleport trick. He scrambled up as Vergil staggered backward, thrilled to have a split second of advance, only to find a barrage of summoned swords in his way.

They slashed in a myriad of angles, forcing Nero to leap high and use his wings to propel himself upward, almost all the way to the high ceiling. As the phone’s second ring burst through the room, Vergil dashed forward, making a direct line for it, intent on passing under Nero.

“You wish, buddy,” Nero muttered, flipping in-flight so his feet hit the ceiling first.

He pushed himself back out like a swimmer at the edge of the pool, straight towards Vergil, who sensed him coming just in time to spin around and stab with the Yamato. Nero twisted, and the scabbard caught briefly in his shirt--and then he had both hands firmly on Vergil’s shoulders. With a victorious grin, he pushed him down and launched himself forward as if he’d executed a regular hand-flip on the ground. Nero landed on the desk and kicked at the phone as it began its third ring, snatching it midair just as Vergil reached for it.

“Devil May Cry,” he answered, a lilt into his voice.

Vergil brought his hand back with a frustrated grunt, but there was no hiding the admiration in his eyes as he stared up at Nero. The shock of it almost made Nero miss his interlocutor’s first words.

“Nero?” Trish’s surprise didn’t last long; she knew what his presence meant. “Shit, is Dante knocked out drunk?”

“Afraid so.”

“Wake him up.” Her tone left no place for negotiations, and the urgency in it gave Nero no desire to protest. “We have a bit of a situation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day Vergil & Nero will get through a conversation without fighting. Today is not that day haha. and hey, our gals are back for the next few chapters, too!


	10. Sweet, Sweet Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the crack of dawn, but Trish and Lady called for back-up, so all three Spardas go on a demon hunting family outing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to drop a continued thank you for all the awesome comments <3

Dante squinted against the rising sun, wishing the light wasn’t quite so bright, and his headache quite so pounding. He did not remember exiting the pub last night, but that wasn’t unusual when Nero was around. What _was_ new and entirely unwelcome was to be pulled out of bed at an ungodly hour by his damn twin for some demon emergency. Couldn’t he just catch a break?

The van rumbled under him as Nico sped through the city streets and he tore his attention away from the sun peeking through buildings, tugging the curtains close so they could retrieve the blessed shadows inside. He was splayed out on the couch, half-sitting, one leg on the ground and the other stretched out.

Dawn hadn’t fully arrived and the morning was already full of surprise. Vergil had handed him coat and gloves the moment he’d rolled out of bed, and Dante had been slipping them on with half a mind on the previous evening when he’d spotted Nero pacing in the office below. He’d stopped dead and looked back at Vergil, a smile widening despite himself.

“Nero and you been here and awake for how long?” he asked.

“You’re the only one who slept.”

It hadn’t quite been an answer, but Dante caught the implied meaning. He wondered what they had been doing while he was crashed upstairs, if _something_ was happening between them. It took all his willpower not to force them into a room together until they found enough common grounds to build something akin to a relationship--something like the family he’d lost when Mundus had ripped their mother away from them. Wouldn’t be fair, to mistake his own desires for theirs.

Except now he had proof they’d been talking, and the giddy excitement was almost enough to wash the headache away. Maybe he just needed to give it a little kick in the nuts.

“Nero, pass me the Gatorade?”

He knew they’d have some stashed in the van’s mini-fridge. They always did, because he _always_ ended up needing one. Nero casually opened the fridge with his demon arm, then grabbed a bottle with it and worldlessly flung it across the van. The bright red liquid caught the sunlight as it flew, and it almost looked like blood.

Vergil followed its trajectory from his place at Dante’s feet--still sitting at the edge, hands clasped in front of him, like he didn’t belong. His lips pursed ever-so-slightly in disgust at the sight of the bottle. “You still drink the red one.”

Dante grinned back at him, twisted the cap, and pulled the protective tab.  “Nothing but the best for a legendary demon hunter. Certainly none of that blue piss.”

They’d been kids racing each other through the forest when they’d first started that pointless feud. Vergil, of course, pretended the blue Gatorade didn’t taste like shit because he liked the colour.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Vergil said.

Nero looked between the two of them and rolled his eyes. “Hell must have fried your brains. None of them beat green.”

Dante and Vergil turned his way in perfect sync--Dante with a burst of laughter, Vergil in vague disgust. He even mouthed ‘green’ as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, and that only redoubled Dante’s hilarity.

“The great thing about life,” he said, “is that you all get to be deeply wrong about simple things, and I will love you nonetheless.”

Nero replied with a grunt that meant “you're silly but also right”, then he set his hands behind his head, leaned back, and spread his legs out, getting comfortable for a nap. He did look exhausted with his eyes closed, and Dante made a mental note to make sure he never fought alone, so he had someone watching his back should the adrenaline not keep him fully awake.

By comparison, Vergil didn't seem remotely affected by the lack of sleep. He sat ramrod straight, his gaze never leaving Nero now that his son wasn’t looking back, and there was something like wistfulness in the tight set of his face. Dante pushed Vergil’s thigh with the tip of his boot, and he startled--just a small catch in his breath, the kind no one but him would notice. Their gaze met, and Vergil offered the hint of a smile, acknowledgement that he _had_ been staring, even if he would deny it should anyone ask. Damned pride would always keep the important words out of his mouth.

“You should sleep,” Dante said instead.

A slight shake of head. “He defeated me again.”

“You been fighting?” Dante couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. Clearly neither of them was worse for wear.

“Competing,” Vergil corrected, his lips quirking into the tiniest of smile.

Dante burst out laughing, and Nero jerked awake at the sound. He glared at his uncle and muttered “keep it down, damnit”, only to drift back to sleep right away. Dante settled into his seat more comfortably, his gaze drifting between brother and nephew, his heart filling up with every second spent together. After two decades of wondering why he bothered with life, of feeling obligated to stick around in case another demon got it in his head to conquer the human world, he’d finally found a reason. _This demon is your reason_ , V had said, walking into his office. And he’d been right, even if he could never have imagined how.

They’d left the city’s heart now and were driving through run down industrial neighbourhoods. Nico was extraordinarily silencious at the wheel, but she’d arrived bleary eyed and with a gigantic coffee--maybe morning just didn’t sit with her.

“Dante.”

He didn’t immediately turn at Vergil’s voice. They’d been together a few weeks now, yet hearing his twin say his name still sent spikes of alert through Dante’s body, warnings of an impending fight, of more raw hurt. His hand twitched against the curtains, but when he finally looked away from the window, he’d plastered his usual smile on.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t lick any weird black ooze we might find.”

“Always ruining my groove, huh, Vergil?”

Vergil turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Someone must.”

Tires screeched as Nico brought the van to a stop, and Dante rose to peek out the front window. They stood before a tall blocky building, beige bricks shining golden in the rising light. It had almost no windows and considering the parts they were in now, Dante guessed it was a factory. What were demons doing here? Above the main doors, blocky red and yellow letters claimed **PENNY’S**. Dante turned to Nico.

“Penny’s? Like the chocolate coins?”

“The one and only,” she answered. “Vergil’s right; don’t got stuffing yourself with suspicious shit because it smells like chocolate.” Dante laughed again. He would damn well eat what he wanted. Nico broke into a grin at his amusement. “You better bring me back some of the good stuff. Trish’s coming.”

She strode out of the main door, hair shining in the morning light, gorgeous as all hell. The black leather really suited her more than any other disguise he’d seen over the years--or maybe he just enjoyed the familiarity of it. Chocolate dotted her cheek and clung to her left forearm, but she didn’t bother to wipe it away.

“All right, time to join this sweet-ass party,” Dante declared.

His headache had faded away. He kicked at Nero’s foot while he strode past, jolting the kid awake, then secured Ebony and Ivory, strapped the Devil Sword Dante to his back, and flung the van’s sliding door open. Fresh air blew his bangs away and he grinned. Exercise was bound to wash off the rest of his hangover.

Dante jumped out of the van and headed towards Trish, arms spread out. “All right, babe, we’re here for the party!”

A soft whirring on his left told him Nero had followed, electric devil breaker powering up, and the almost inaudible _tsk_ from his right confirmed Vergil was not far behind. Flanked by his angry and over-enthusiastic nephew and his uppity but deadly brother--what more could he ask for in life?

Trish set a hand on her hip. “I see you brought the whole family to the gathering. This’ll be over in an instant.”

“I never leave without my flunkies,” he said, his thumbs pointing over his shoulders at the two others.

“ _Flunkies?_ ”

Nero and Vergil repeated it with perfect synchronicity, one in anger, the other in disdain. Dante laughed, and it took all his willpower not to turn around and look at their dumb faces. Judging by the amusement shining in Trish’s eyes, it had to be hilarious.

“Come on. You got until I reach that door to tell me what’s going on, after which I’m kicking demon ass and no longer listening.”

“You hardly ever listen at all anyway,” she pointed out. “Morrison tipped us off. Factory workers have been disappearing over the last week, and we found an entire line corrupted. Now it’s pouring out demons endlessly, and the damn things won’t stay down. Lady’s containing the flow, but we’ve been fighting for hours and haven’t made a dent.”

“Right-o. We can fix that.”

“What do you mean, corrupted?” Vergil asked, and Dante slowed at the tightness in his voice. He didn’t usually let that much of his worries shine through.

Trish cast a look over her shoulder. “Hard to explain. It’s demonic in nature, but no demon I’ve actually met or heard of. The whole thing feels… off.”

“Is any of it covered in a black substance?”

The question startled Trish, and she scowled at him. “How do you know?”

“An educated guess.” Everyone was staring at him now, and he instead cast a grim look at the looming factory. “We can discuss it more in-depth after we clean it away. I advise against letting anyone but Lady touch it.”

Dante could feel the tension build up, and he’d be damned if he was going to let distrust ruin his perfectly good demon hunting family outing. He unhooked his sword and gave it an easy twirl. “All right, we got our game plan: kill demons, stop the demon-burping machine, and avoid black jello.” He slapped Vergil’s shoulder and relished the flash of offence on his brother’s face, then spun around and started back towards the factory, the sweet sound of Lady’s guns luring him forward. “Time to kick some ass.”

****

###

****

Dante had always considered his second sense for demonic bullshit to be well-developed, but as they ripped their way through the chocolate factory’s infestation, he had to admit they’d reached a brand new level. First of all, the molten chocolate formed into the familiar scythe-limbed clowns that had invaded Fortuna years ago. They moved the same, screeched the same, but their entire body was tasty, demonic-powered chocolate, with no innards to stab at. The Devil Sword slid right through, and he found himself summoning fiery blades more than usual, burning them to a crisp as he sliced them. Flashes of lightning warned him Trish and Nero had adopted the same strategy, and Lady had come equipped with an actual flamethrower.

In fact, a quick survey of the battlefield revealed one thing: only Vergil used his sword, and the Yamato had no trouble killing the creatures. It seemed to pull something out of the chocolate, crystals the colour of puke which shattered an instant later. And instead of going after his own targets, he aimed the ones everyone else had put down, cutting them into tiny pieces before they could reform.

So Vergil had known what to expect, and now he had the only weapon properly capable of easily killing these. Yeah, that bullshit meter sure was through the roof. Dante watched Vergil glide through the battlefield, and each stab of the Yamato was a new stud in his stomach, a knot of renewed doubts and remembered betrayals. If Vergil was up to something again… But no. He didn’t want to believe that. They were a family again, and this time, nothing would break them apart.

The main hall had been mostly cleared now, and while a few chocolate scarecrows continued to emerge from the industrial threads, it didn’t require the whole team to keep them at bay. Time to move on. Dante leaped down his perch and made a line for the door besides those threads.

“Nero, Vergil, stay here and keep their numbers under control. Lady, Trish? Show me the source.”

The girls cleared the demons before them in an instant, sprinting across the wide space to run past him with complicit race-you-to-it grins. Nero and Vergil looked like they might protest, but the sound of screeching metal emerged from the thread, and Dante had barely walked past when the wall above exploded, demolished by a big piece of machinery with large, cutting blades and sets of coin-sized cylinders. Dante never broke his stride, but he spun around to watch them work as he moved.

“Nero!”

Vergil was the farthest of the two, almost all the way over, but he sprinted towards the machinery. Nero, halfway to it already, spun on his heels to face him and sent both of his demon arms out. One grabbed Vergil by the collar while the other served as support for his foot, and in one smooth movement, Nero sent his father sailing across the area. The animated line thrust its cutting cylinders forward and shot out waves of black coins at Vergil. Half of them were immediately shot down by Nero, and the rest fell prey to the Yamato, allowing Vergil to land unscathed on top of the machinery, on the thin foothold where the cylinders connected. Nero was already charging the bottom, Red Queen blazing. Clearly, they had things under control.

Dante left through the door, into a corridor that ran along the production chain. Most of the walls here had been demolished too, revealing the assembly line behind. Big machines doing all kinds of rolling and pressing and cutting, all of which went way over his head as long as none of them sprung to life and jumped him. The chocolate smell permeating the entire place made his stomach rumble, though. He really should've grabbed Vergil’s cold leftover pizza on his way out, olives or no olives. He almost wanted to try the chocolate, but Vergil's warning about the black ooze held him back. Oh well, no solution for his empty stomach but to get this over with.

Dante followed the trail of dead chocolate scarecrows, burning off those who were starting to reform. Something had to be powering them. Dead demons either stayed dead or ashed off, returning to hell for whatever resurrection process awaited them. They weren't supposed to spawn back to life right where they’d been cut down. This whole thing was just very unpleasant business--though Lady would probably say it'd make a good cash flow.

Dante caught a flash of lightning up ahead, followed by a whoop and the quick staccato of Lady's guns. He sprinted off, eager to join in the action and clear out the less pleasant thoughts from his mind. With every new stride, bright orange blades appeared behind him, each with a sharp will of their own. He allowed the Devil Sword Dante to disappear briefly as he approached two large swing doors, and set one empty palm on each of them. Dante pushed hard, grinning, eager to make a grand, remarkable entrance.

Inside was a gigantic assemblage of mechanisms, all blades and crushing stamps, with two articulated arms ending in coin-sized pincers and three massive boilers. Chunks of walls clung to the structure like a protective armour and a swarm of gold-foiled coins flitting around it and more constantly emerged from somewhere deep inside. Energy crackled through the room as Trish unleashed her electricity on the swarm.

The doors slamming behind Dante made his heart sign.

“Call me a loonie, but it looks like there's a hole in your wallet!”

Neither Trish nor Lady turned towards him, and the assembly demon didn't even twitch. Dante pouted. What was the point if his audience didn't listen? He wiped out Ebony and Ivory, shooting a flurry of bullets at its head. Or, well, the knot of wires and controls he assumed to be the head. Hard to tell with these ugly jumbles of parts. Slowly, the demon shifted its attention towards him.

“Hey, big guy! I said--”

A rocket smashed into its side, blowing the protective wall to pieces, and it turned away again. So much for his entrance.

“Okay then.” Dante extended his hand, flexing his fingers briefly to call forth the Devil Sword. When the sword's now familiar weight rested in his palms, he dashed forward. “Guess I’m gonna have to give you pennies for your thoughts.”

Thick tubes shot in his direction as he sprinted forward, and Dante leaped on them, avoiding their jagged edges and running along their length. His conjured blades picked off the multiple coins zipping in his direction, and Lady’s bullets caught the rest. He saluted her as he ran above, then sprang up again, dodging a second tube right before it could hit, letting the demon smash itself. Mid air, Dante spread his arms out, then reached deep inside of himself, to that invisible knot where demon met human, where physics lost some of its meaning. A brief platform shimmered under his feet, and he jumped a third time right as the assembled demon brought a large arm to bear.

He landed on the rim of a boiler and crouched down to balance himself. Under his feet, a black ooze boiled, releasing noxious fumes and producing lava-like sounds straight out of the cheesiest volcano movies. And if he believed Vergil, falling in might be just as bad. He almost wanted to dip his toes and test it.

“Hey Dante!” Trish called, before being forced to dodge to flat slicing blades extending out of the machine. “Stop touring and start fighting!”

“Jeez, all right! You ladies sure love to work me hard.”

Lady’s laugh came from his right, well above him. She must have used Kalina Ann’s grappling to climb upon the mismatched assembly line and now had her shotgun point blank at an articulation. “We just don’t want you to miss all the fun!”

She blasted the articulation to pieces, then somersaulted away before the demon could swipe at her. As crushing rolls crashed to the ground, on each side of her, Dante grinned.

“You’re right. Gotta earn my sweets!”

Besides, he was itching for some demolition time. Dante craned his neck up, at the massive tangle of wires and panels that looked like controls, then traced a path along spinning threads, coin-shooting cylinders, and mechanical arms to where he stood now. Sword-blazing parkour was always one of his favourite parts.

He launched himself away from the boilers, plunging the Devil Sword through the demon’s body as he twisted around to set his two feet on each side, then pushed away, to the long flat blade on his right. Dante landed on it precariously and immediately slashed downward, separating the weapon from the rest of the body. He was moving away before it even started to fall, always running, jumping, sliding and slicing. The Devil Sword Dante left great red gauges everywhere he passed, tearing off bits of the assembly line and damaging others. Yet for every part he cut off, the demon’s tubes and wires reached out, salvaging and reattaching. It wasn’t reviving like the chocolate scarecrows, but close enough.

Distracted by the process, Dante didn’t spot the thick tube whipping across the room until the last moment. He threw out a hand and absorbed part of the blow, but the heavy metal sent him flying into a wall. Pain shot through his back and blinded him for a brief instant--and when he woke, he found dozens more of tentacular tubes, all too reminiscent of the spread of Qliphoth roots attached to Urizen’s back. He grimaced, picked up the Devil Sword again, and rushed right back in. On the other end of the room, Trish was mirroring his movement.

Tubular conduits shot for the two of them, forcing Dante to focus on himself, on the rhythm of the ground under him, the strain in his muscles as he jumped and twisted, the pumping of his heart and the thrill of the moment. Then he slashed at one of the tubes to keep it away from it, and its content poured out, splashing all over him.

Dante registered the black liquid, the stench, and then sudden pain wracked him, like a thousand needles had dug into his skin across his shoulder, arm, and chest where he’d been splashed, only they were stabbing at something deeper, something intimate. Like a hand squeezing his soul.

Trish’s surprised scream reached him in dimmed tones, distant. _Turn around. Something is happening. React!_ He mentally berated himself, struggling to move, to comprehend what his eyes were telling him--tubes lifting his friend up, tight around her body, pinning her arms. _Danger._ Why was his mind so sluggish? It was like… like something drained at him, diverted his energy. He lifted his sludge-covered arm--all claws and dark skin under which glistened a red fire. What…

Dante shook off part of his daze. It didn’t matter. This prickly little sludge wanted a taste of the demon in him? He could arrange that. Dante closed his eyes and unlocked his devil form, letting it completely loose. It had grown so much easier with time, less and less of a part of him to control and crush. Power exploded with the release, his body reshaping, thicker, harder, muscles electrified by it. He let out a slow, pleased sigh, as if stretching out after a long car ride. Dante snapped his wings out, his mind clearer now, able to assess the situation.

Trish was crackling with electricity, bits of lightning coursing along the tubes, to no avail. Lady settled Kalina-Ann on her shoulder and fired away, launching a series of rockets at it. Two of the tubes exploded, splashing more of the goo on the ground, but more replaced them. And now this huge mess of a demon was bringing down an appendage made of wall chunks and metal down on Lady.

Dante flew off, catching the arm before it could slam into his friend, then wrenching it away. The shock reverberated through the entire demon, and for a moment it stopped dragging Trish closer. Dante flew to it, spinning and drilling directly through the tubes. Drops of the black substance caught his wings as he pierced through and were flung out, like so many specks rejected from him, never really touching him. A deep roar filled the room, and the demon’s boilers started lurching forward, tipping to spill the rest of their content over Trish, who’d landed just below. Already, Dante could fill his energy burning up. Just one last thing to do, then.

Great wings beating, he propulsed himself to the lowest of the boiler and wrapped thick arms around it. He strained against the heavy metal, and as he did, hundreds of floating coin homed in on him. Dante snapped his eyes shut, let the world fade away, let it become nothing but the pulsing of demonic energy, within him and all around. Since he’d absorbed the Sparda, he could _feel_ other demons, see them as pinpricks of light mapped out in his mind, and as he pinpointed the coins, he sent hundreds of tiny flames shooting out after them like so many fireflies. Then he gave a last push of strength, ripped the boiler away, and flung it far, far against the wall.

It smashed there even as Dante’s energy slipped out, thick demons muscles collapsing on themselves, and he landed hard on the ground, drained and dizzy. A rocket exploded right over his head, pushing back a blade before it could slice him, and he sensed Lady at this shoulder, guns at the ready while he recovered. He lumbered to his feet, scanning the room for Trish, and found her leaning against the wall, one of her leg seemingly pinned to the ground by that black ooze. So, okay, maybe Vergil had been right and this shit was bad news. Too late now. He turned to the entire boiler he’d flung against a wall and cringed.

Entire chunks of the wall were reforming around the kettle, tearing the building apart. Sections of the ceiling had seemingly yanked themselves away, too, adding to the hodgepodge of goo and plaster. Part of the demonic assembly line leaned towards it, as if it wanted to fuse with it, and its mechanical arms were unfastening a second boiler even as Dante and Lady sprinted across the room to join with Trish. A deep rumble shook the factory.

“This thing just won’t die, will it?” Dante said, bringing forth a deep red blade to burn the sludge solidified around her leg.

“Observant as always, Dante!” Trish’s easy mockery was a relief. She shouldn’t be too badly off, if she could tease him. “We called you for a reason, but I think you made it worse.”

“More challenging, you mean.”

Lady scoffed, and he could practically see her roll her eyes. “I’ve been fighting for three hours. That ammo is not going to last forever.”

Dante finished his work, then helped Trish up to her feet. She avoided leaning on her leg. “The easy way is to call Vergil. I’m sure you noticed what the Yamato did to lesser demons.”

Lady scowled. “No way in Hell.” She set the Kalina Ann on her shoulder, turning to the great demon. The second great boiler was free now, and Dante suspected they’d made a mistake in waiting to regroup. “Let’s finish this.”

Dante couldn’t help but smirk. He’d only been half-serious about Vergil. Sure, it’d work, but they didn’t _need_ him, not if Nero’s account of their fight on the demon train had been accurate. Red Queen had busted that engine, not the Yamato. Trish must have had similar thoughts, because she looked up at the beast, one hand on her hip.

“We need to get that control panel on top. Fry it to oblivion.”

“Easy,” Dante said. “Lady can give us a ride. Want the honour, Trish?”

She considered it, her frown deepening with every passing second. “No, better let my leg rest. Enjoy yourself.”

“Splendid.”

He turned to Lady, nodded. She nodded back, and he sprinted off. Moments later, Kalina Ann detonated behind him. Dante jumped at the last moment, his perfect timing borne of years of practice, and he whooped as his soles hit the hot rocket, crouching for balance. In one glorious second he had flown across the room and up, and Dante leaped off just as it crashed into the demon, flipping midair and bringing the Devil Sword to bear. It plunged into the control panel, sending sparks flying, and the demon under him roared. Tubes and blades came up in jerky movements, and Dante twisted the blade then pushed to the side, cutting through deeper.

A high-pitched whine emitted from the demon, quickly increasing in intensity, then the whole demon exploded under him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante is just so soft for his whole family, I'm dying :3. I refuse to apologize for puns made about canadian money. XD


	11. Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demonic chocolate coin factory has exploded, and the gathered devil hunter team must deal with the fallout--including Vergil's potential involvement in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any formatting mistakes. I am laptop less in a cabin in the woods, so... cellphone update it is! Lots of tinier scenes this chapter. :)

A first shockwave threw Vergil off his precarious perch atop a eight-foot-tall stamper intent on imprinting either Nero or him with the design of a poker chip. He flipped midair and landed back on his feet, on the ground, only for a second rumble to shake his balance--right as one of those stamp cylinder shot out for him. Vergil reached within and a dark blue aura exploded out of him as he pinched local timespace, allowing ample opportunity to recover his footing, dodge out of the way, and rush the machine. Three quick slashes later and it was sliding to the ground in several pieces.

This gave him the perfect view of the intense blast of lightning from Nero’s Devil Breaker as he crumpled a similar demon, right behind Vergil’s own. Their gazes met over the debris of their fallen enemies, and Nero’s wide grin brought a thin smile out of Vergil. They’d annihilated everything coming their way and barely broken a sweat.

Before he could step forward and stab Nero’s demon, ensuring it never reformed, an ear-piercing screech resonated through the factory--and the inside section exploded.

The conflagration reduced an entire wall into shreds and sent both of them flying. Nero’s demon arms shone into existence and spread out, catching the hot winds and lifting him before he hit the ground, but Vergil slammed hard into the floor and barely rolled with the blow, flipping himself up only by reflex, his feet sliding as they found the ground. He peered through the cloud of dust and shattered plaster, but he couldn’t make out any human shapes. They didn’t have time to wait for the chaos to settle. Wide cracks sped up along one of the factory’s inner walls, all the way to the ceiling, and chunks of it began to fall. Vergil watched a large slab of plaster detach from above him and sidestepped as it came down.

“It seems the factory is collapsing,” he said, glancing at the exit.

“No shit!” Nero sprinted off, towards the heart of the explosion.

“Nero!”

Vergil started after him, but as more of the ceiling crumbled above them, he thought better of it. They _both_ needed to get out of here. He reached within again, but instead of pinching the timespace around him, he launched himself into it, vanishing for a brief moment. He sliced into the falling chunks of plaster raining down on them as he moved, and as he reappeared on the other side of Nero, blue lines shone in the debris. They exploded into more dust without ever reaching Nero.

“We must go,” Vergil said.

“And leave Dante and the others? No way!”

He stomped forward despite the entire room slowly collapsing around them. Vergil rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a fool. They can all take care of themselves, and they’ll be counting on us to do the same.”

He hoped, anyway. Vergil almost looked back over his shoulder again, to see if any of them was there, to reassure himself nothing like a meagre explosion could have taken out Dante--not when _he_ had failed over and over.

The factory gave a long, plaintive creak, as if to agree with him. Nero didn’t slow down. “Don’t you get it? The explosion, Dante being over there, maybe stuck in it? It’s like Urizen all over again. I’m not--”

“It’s not, Nero.” Vergil couldn’t tell where the words had come from; they’d just sprang from his lips unbidden, his firm tone cutting above the rubble. They did stop Nero, even for an instant, and Vergil pressed on, his heart hammering in his chest, his brain screaming at him to stop and think about what he was saying, to measure words before he said something he’d regret. “Urizen is never happening again. I will not allow it. This is but a minor demon in a collapsing factory, and we need to get out before it falls upon our head. The others will be doing the same.”

“You-you can’t know that!”

A gigantic section of the room fell down, not too far from the main entrance. If they didn’t go now, they’d have to punch their way through the walls to exit. Not impossible, but Vergil would rather not. He gritted his teeth as the ceiling hit the floor, shaking the very floor.

“I have extensive experience in demons and in Dante surviving impossible odds, Nero. Of course I know this.” He shot every ounce of arrogance possible into his voice, and was rewarded by Nero’s demon arms grabbing the front of his coat and dragging him in close.

“You better be right,” he growled.

Nero released him with a slight shake, then stalked towards the exit. The wall on his left began to fall over and he punched it into hundreds of pieces without ever breaking his stride or looking at it. He was pissed, but he was leaving at least, and Vergil trudged after him. They stepped out just as the rest of the building finally gave in with a long, plaintive creak.

 

###

 

They found Lady and Trish at the _Devil May Cry_ van, Lady chugging down black coffee while Trish leaned on the door, one leg folded back to keep it off the ground. Dust whitened their clothes and hair, and they had their shares of scratches, but neither looked particularly wounded.

“Here comes the father and son,” Lady said with an unmistakable disdain on ‘father’. “Did you wait for the factory to collapse to make a dramatic exit?”

“Where's Dante?” Nero asked.

Trish gestured at the pile of rubble behind. “Don't fret it, kid.”

Nero did fret. He stared at the pile of rubble, his hands moving from his hips to his gun, then in his pockets, and back to his hips. Every now and then he interrupted the routine to wipe his nose, but in all of this, his gaze never faltered.

Truthfully, Vergil was in no better state, although he managed to contain the outward signs of it. He stared at the factory, lips tight, one hand on the Yamato, and prayed he hadn't been wrong, that Dante hadn’t needed them to go after him. Every new passing second tightened the vice around his stomach, until--finally!--a black hand punched through a slate of plaster. Vergil's leg faltered from the sudden relief, and he caught himself with a small step, flushing as eyes snapped to him.

Dante flew out of the factory's debris, devil wings carrying him high. As he arched back down, he shifted back to his human form, red coat flying behind him. In his hand was a strange mesh back full of colourful items.

“Hey Vergil!” he called out from above. “Look what I found.”

He grabbed his mesh bag by the bottom and upended it, sending colourful chocolate coins raining down on them. Vergil squinted against the morning sun, and suddenly recognized them for what they were: _poker chips_. A quick, raw laugh escaped him as Dante’s intention hit him, and while he clamped down on it, he couldn’t help his smile.

“Jackpot,” he whispered, as his brother landed in their midst, arms spread out, and executed a sweeping bow.

Dante picked one of the chips up and flicked it towards him. “Jackpot.”

Vergil snatched it off and held tight to it, even knowing the warmth of his palm would melt it. The word was theirs alone, one of the few threads connecting them that had survived even their encounter on the Temen-ni-gru, and as annoying as Dante could be with it, Vergil would never reneged on it either.

 

###

 

Dante dusted the top of his coat off before stretching his shoulders. That factory sure wasn’t light as a feather, and for a moment there he’d wondered if he would have to call for help. As good as a stress relief as fighting was, he was glad it was over for the day. Now he’d worked quite an appetite, and even though dawn had barely risen, he couldn’t help but dream about the taste of pizza in his mouth.

“Anyone hungry?” he asked.

Trish laughed and shook her head. “It’s good to have you back, Dante.”

The rest of the troops, it seemed, were sadly not in any mood for delicious pizza. Nero stomped forward, blue wings shimmering bright behind him--either angry or scared, then. Or both. “What happened?”

Dante shrugged. “The usual. Put the Devil Sword in its heart and it went boom. You know how these things go, Nero.” Maybe he shouldn’t have left him with Vergil? He’d have expected Nero to play it cool. But there was a lot going on, and even his own desire to couch everything under smooth jokes was starting to dwindle. He shifted his attention to Vergil, still clutching the poker chip, blue eyes set on a point between him and Nero, but not on either of them. “And you were right, Vergil! We found whole buckets of that black sludge and it stung like hell.”

Vergil snapped to attention. “ _You touched it?_ ” The ice in his voice froze any feeling out of it, leaving Dante unable to tell if he was angry, or worried, or insulted his advice had not been followed.

“Took a whole damn bath as soon as I saw it!” he declared, aiming for the hyperbolic. He was immediately rewarded when Vergil’s mask broke for a brief instant, letting a hint of panic and confusion through. “I’m fine. But maybe it’s time you told us what you know about this.”

“And how you know it,” Lady added, crossing her arms.

Vergil met her glare, shoulders squared, and lifted his chin. “You would’ve known, too, if you were marginally more observant.”

Lady’s gun flashed out, aimed straight at Vergil’s forehead, and Dante put a hand above it, pushing it slightly down before she pressed the trigger. Trish set another hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Not worth your bullet, babe.”

An exasperating silence stretched between them as Vergil kept whatever information he had for himself, and Dante was just about ready to decide it didn’t matter, and they could deal with whatever this latest bullshit was as it came, when Nero punched his father’s shoulder hard.

“Why the fuck aren’t you talking?”

Vergil startled, his lips parted, and for a moment Dante actually believed he would apologize. Then he sniffed, fingers tightening over the Yamato. When he spoke, his voice was annoyingly didactic. “I offered Nico a book covered in this sludge, and she accidentally cut herself above it. The moment human blood was within reach, it sprang to life. Furthermore, this substance has been present in every encounter of human-created objects possessed of demonic energy. Thus, once Trish had asserted workers had disappeared and the factory itself was the demon to hunt, I reached the logical conclusion.”

This was more thinking than Dante really cared to make, but he was glad it _made sense_ , that Vergil had a ready explanation for it, none of which involved ill-gotten knowledge. Maybe it was fine. Maybe nothing weird was happening.

“That doesn’t tell us what the fuck it is,” Nero pointed out.

“Or why the Yamato was the only effective way of putting them down,” Trish added.

Dante clacked his tongue. Well fuck. He didn’t want to have more questions for Vergil! He stared at his brother, the pride etched in his posture, in his slight, disdainful smile, and old, familiar anger pooled within him. _Come on, Vergil_ , he thought, _explain it away._

“I’m afraid I do not know what ‘the fuck’ it is, except that it is demonic in nature.”

Lady snorted. “So this stuff just starts appearing on your return, and we got no explanation about how it came here from the demon world, but your _portal-opening_ sword is mysteriously magic at destroying it. What a beautiful set of coincidences.”

Vergil’s eyebrows shot up. “Say what you mean, Lady.”

Lady pulled on the strap of the Kalina-Ann and glared at him. “I know what happened the last time I gave a power-hungry man a chance at redemption. So do you, and so does Dante.”

She pointed at him then, and Dante reflexively lifted his palms. He didn’t want to be a part of this argument. Its only logical conclusion was that Vergil would betray them, too, and he just didn’t want to think of that. To Dante’s surprise, his brother didn’t protest or mock her. He inclined his head, as if he, too, agreed--and that was perhaps even worse.

“We all paid for that mistake,” Lady continued, “but it was my decision, just as _your_ survival is Nero’s.” She briefly nodded at the youth, then, before shaking her head. “I’ll respect that. What I don’t get is why you still have the Yamato, when you can fuck us all over with it.”

That got to Vergil immediately. He slid back from her, his hand flying to the katana at his side, and tilted his chin up. “It’s mine.” His gaze swept over their gathered group, and Dante could feel the calculation in them, the reframing of his surroundings as a battlefield. With every new moment of silence, Vergil was growing more tense, his right foot slowly sliding backwards as he readied for a fight.

_If you want it, then you’ll have to take it._

Circumstances had changed, but Dante knew these words would remain true. He crossed his arms. He had no intention of taking it unless Vergil forced his hand--and if that happened, there would be hell to pay for his twin. “It’s _his_ inheritance, Lady, and it’ll remain his for as long as he lives, or until he decides to pass it along.”

The thick tension in the air dissipated. Were they all just accepting his decision, like he somehow made the rules? Dante frowned--when had _that_ happened? But Vergil’s posture had immediately relaxed and his grip on the Yamato loosened, and perhaps the others felt the shift. Lady rolled her eyes but offered a peacemaking shrug.

“Your family; your decisions.”

“We should go,” Trish added, “Police and firefighters will be coming along, and none of us can afford to pay for the damages. I don’t think we’ll find our answers here.”

“Right.” Nero sounded entirely too relieved for the conversation to be moving in a new direction. He pushed through all of them, jumping in the van. “I’ll wake Nico.”

Lady followed him in before helping Trish up, stealing a kiss as she pulled her up. Dante was certain she’d have been fine without the help, even with a wounded leg, but these two had a habit of following the toughest fight by sprawling over each other, and he hadd no doubts they’d claim the long couch for themselves. He watched them disappear, then turned back towards Vergil, only to find his brother staring right at him.

Vergil stared at the chocolate poker chip Dante had thrown him, his gaze unreadable.  He flicked it back at Dante, who reflexively caught it, then walked past him to climb into the van, never uttering a single word. Whatever was going on through his mind was there to stay, at least for now.

With a sigh, Dante unwrapped his poker chip, and shoved it into his mouth before following everyone else inside.

 

###

 

“You think I’m behind this, Dante?”

Vergil had waited until they were alone to speak with Dante, but the question shot out of him the moment they stepped into the _Devil May Cry_ headquarters. He didn’t care what Lady thought of him: her logic was sound and their history too twisted to untangle from this. But somewhere in that conversation, Dante had thrown him a look drenched with suspicions and frustrations, and it had been a searing blade through Vergil’s self-control. If Lady wanted to blame the entire world’s woes on him, so be it, but Dante… He needed to know where they stood.

Dante turned his head slightly, but he kept going until he was at his desk and could lean on it. There was something angry in his smile when he turned, something almost dangerous.

“The problem with you, Vergil, is that I want to believe I got my brother back--that we can be a happy family somehow--and then? Then I find out you’re one step ahead of the latest demonic bullshit again, and a lifetime of experience says that means you’re behind it.”

Perhaps Vergil should have prepared himself for honesty, since he’d asked for it, but instead he found his words stolen away by Dante’s brutal answer. He looked away from his brother’s anger, its familiarity burning harder than he dared acknowledge. Slowly, ripping the question out against the demands of his pride, he asked, “Why leave me the Yamato, then?”

Dante scoffed, and even without looking, Vergil knew the usual smirk had returned. “Guess I’m an idiot who can’t help but believe.”

Vergil closed his eyes. How Dante could believe in him after everything was beyond him. But then, that was exactly why he’d sought him out as V. The only person who’d never truly lost faith in him was his brother. “There are other possibilities. Perhaps--”

“Vergil.”

Dante’s voice--the way he pronounced his name, like no other word could hold such immense and complex meaning… It cut through Vergil, leaving him defenceless and raw. Vergil stopped and turned to him, forcing himself to face his brother properly. This time, Dante didn’t smile.

“Just tell me you didn’t do it.”

Vergil startled at the request. Why would that change anything? Traitors denied their crimes anyway. They had no honour, no shame in their treachery. He had always been straightforward with his intentions--even those he betrayed had received warnings--and-- oh. He _had_ always been transparent. It had never occurred to him Dante might consider his word to be good enough. It was so absurd, and yet…

“I didn’t,” he said, and a broken laugh escaped him at how freeing it felt. “Not this time, Dante. This one’s not me.”

“See?” Dante spread out his arms, smiling once more. “That wasn’t so hard.”

He pushed himself away from the desk, walking towards Vergil with long, casual stride. Clearly, Dante had something in mind; Vergil could detect words rolling on his tongue, ready to be unleashed. A jest, perhaps, unless Dante was still in a more serious mood.

Then Dante did the absolute worst thing Vergil could have foreseen: he flung an arm over Vergil’s shoulder, making good use of his extra inch, and dragged him even lower, pulling his head closer in the process. Vergil knew the knuckles were coming before he felt them against his skull, yet all his ability to reach within himself and freeze time flew out of him, kicked out by the sheer surprise and absurdity of it all. Dante rubbed his knuckles hard and fast, laughing.

“I bet that big _cabeza_ of yours has a bunch of theories about what’s going on, too, so let them out!”

“Dante--!” He pushed at the arms, and finally twisted out of his grasp. His hair was falling down over his eyes now, partly undone. “You scum, you--” Vergil huffed, then ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head back. Only once satisfied it was back in place did he look back to his brother and his damn shit-eating grin. “We’re fourty years old men, Dante.”

“Funny thing is, knuckle rubs are like fine wine: they become better with age.”

“I must disagree.” He smoothed out his coat, resisting the urge to touch his hair again. “And, yes, I do have theories. I will endeavour to corroborate them through the magic of research post-haste. It is pointless to discuss them until I can better understand what may be the cause of this.”

“Any chance you mean field research?”

Vergil scoffed. “Of course not. I will be heading to the library.”

“Well, then…” Dante rolled his shoulders and allowed himself a deep, long yawn. “You'll excuse me, but this old man's eyes don't like books much anymore. That two-hour nap wasn't nearly enough sleep.”

Dante headed for the stairs, a light skip in his steps, as if there was music playing only he could hear.

“Your eyes _never_ liked books, Dante,” Vergil called after him.

His brother answered with a shrug. He was halfway up the stairs when a specific thought must have occurred to him, and he turned with a frown.

“Aren't _you_ tired? Nero looked about ready to crash, and you haven't slept any more than he did.”

“I am.” Bone tired, but was he ever anything else since first recovering his body? He had hoped fusing back with Urizen would fix this, but instead it seemed the exhaustion clung to him, eternal. The only difference was that Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare no longer filled his nights, leaving instead silence behind. And when he did sleep…

“I sense a ‘but’, Vergil, so out with it.”

“Insomnia.” That was the easy version of it, anyway, and the only one he was willing to give Dante. “I could go to bed, but what is the point if I don't sleep? I would rather be efficient with my time.”

“How very you.” He slapped his hand over the railing, then started up the stairs again. “But you’re gonna need rest sooner or later. Maybe you ought to figure out how to do that before you go digging into demon conspiracies.”

That was a surprisingly sensible suggestion. When had Dante learned to emit those? Vergil watched him wordlessly. Part of him wanted to admit to the awful quiet of his nights now, to how it’d given way to a constant, anxious buzz since Nico had casually admitted her father might have used shreds of his soul to power his demons. When Nero had arrived to the _Devil May Cry_ in the middle of the night, Vergil had been fighting off phantom pain along his spine, grounding himself as best as he could through the familiar patterns of the Yamato’s pommel and the familiarity of his surroundings. Except… he didn’t want to mention Nelo Angelo or Mundus to Dante. This was a part of their history he refused to revisit. Besides, he had too much work ahead of him to linger on such things.

First, he needed to update his planner and work out a schedule for both prank and research.

Once the sound of Dante flopping on his bed reached him, Vergil moved on with his routine. He first changed the jukebox to a set from Philip Glass, whose near mathematical melodies reached a perfect balance of filling the silence without overwhelming his mind, then he moved to the desk and picked off the stacked pizza box from it. Those went on top of the dozen others near the door, waiting to be taken out with the trash. On his way back to the desk, Vergil used the tip of the Yamato to flip up stray magazines, which he caught midair and set in a neat pile on the couch. It wasn't much, but it made the area clean enough that he could focus on something else than the mess.

As Vergil surveyed the result, it occurred to him for the first time that Dante might mind these intrusions in his life. He never said anything, but over the course of the three last weeks, Vergil had increasingly created his space in the _Devil May Cry_. He had a single disk in the jukebox, a space on the desk had been reserved for his ink and pen, he often left his Blake's collection downstairs, and, as he'd just learned, his room was in fact Nero's guest room. From what others had said, Dante used to spend almost all his time in here, yet it felt to Vergil like he was always out demon hunting or hanging out with the girls. Maybe he was encroaching. He ought to ask, but Dante was unlikely to give him more than an evasive jest and a smile. Still… if he was to consider any long-term plans, he ought to keep living arrangements in mind. It was difficult to envision himself in such a distant future after a lifetime of dodging pursuit and seeking power, yet he would have no choice. Another thing for the planner…

Glass’s melodies drifting in the background, Vergil set to work on his schedule. He looked at what he’d written in the first week he’d received it.

 

~~**Find a gift for Nicoletta**~~ \- That was one thing done, at least.

~~**Contact Lady**~~ \- Done, to his great pain.

~~**Make Dante laugh again**~~ \- He hesitated, then struck it. That knuckle-rub had to count.

**Find money to pay Lady quickly -** Ugh. Perhaps the help today could compensate?

**Find out how much Dante owes her -** This still needed doing, too.

~~**Learn about new technology (ask Nico?)**~~ \- Done. A great decision.

 

He flipped to the month’s page, where he’d written down **demons possessing objects?** and put a checkmark next to that. His instincts had been right. Now he needed to act on it. Vergil started a brand new list, on this week’s page, combining the leftover tasks with those from the prank, and the necessities of this new demonic threat.

 

**Find money to pay Lady quickly**

**Find out how much Dante owes Lady**

**Buy blue banners/decorations**

**Print the screenshot in multiple sizes**

**Help Nico with the model**

**Research demon summoning**

**Research the veil between human and demon world**

**Invite Nero again**

 

Vergil leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes. He had no clue what the last one should be about, but he needed to put it on the list. He only ran into Nero by accident, and while the fights had eased part of the awkwardness between them, Vergil wished… he wasn’t sure, really, what he wanted, only that their stumbling conversations didn’t satisfy him. Besides, Nero had promised to tell him about Kyrie, before the phone interrupted, and Vergil still wanted to hear it. Something unique lit Nero’s eyes whenever he mentioned her name, a soft sort of love Vergil had never known. He wondered how they had met, what drew Nero to her, what she thought of all this, and of him.

As new worries lodged themselves in the back of his mind, guided by orchestra notes filling the room, Vergil slipped into a restless sleep.


	12. A Shared Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trish's leg hasn't entirely healed from her encounter with the demonic assembly line, and as she seeks Vergil's help, they connect a few threads of their shared past... to the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Vergil and Trish chapter!! It's a bit ahorter than usual, but I really like this one.

It took Vergil longer to find time for the library than he would've liked, but Nico had insisted upon his presence for most of the last two days, to focus on the central piece of their prank. At first he had been annoyed--it seemed a terrible way to order his priorities--but at least there hadn't been a resurgence in possessed demons. And if he was honest with himself, once Nico had showed him the 3D printer, fascination had washed away his reluctance. He couldn't fathom the leaps technology had made in his absence, how world-changing these inventions were. He watched her print tiny pieces of plastic, struggling to keep his dignity and avoid gaping but shamelessly burying her in questions about the way it functioned.

Alas, duty eventually called, and while she followed Nero on a minor hunt, he opted to dig into the arcane books he knew existed buried in the central library. Accurate information on demon lore was always difficult to come by, but this was where he’d first found concrete information about ways to access Sparda's power--books he suspected Arkham had led him to--so he had hope. And indeed, although it took him an hour of gruelling search, Vergil eventually unearthed an ancient text about the veil between the human and the demon world.

It didn't tell him much he didn't already know. Ever since Sparda had sealed away the demon world, the veil could only be crossed through Hell Gates. Sometimes, however, a powerful increase in demonic activity could weaken the veil, allowing demons to pass through in specific areas. Vergil’s main theory involved a weakened veil because of the Qliphoth, though that did little to explain what the sludge might be, and why only demon souls, not bodies, would be passing through.

He sighed and let his head rest on the desk. He hadn't slept again over the last two nights, dogged by the resurgence of his memories of Nelo Angelo, and although his appetite was crawling back to life, he only ate enough to keep himself going. Certainly not enough for the concentration these cryptic texts demanded.

“Tough luck on the research?”

Vergil startled and slapped the book close, reflexively hiding his topic of interest from the owner of the melodious voice. Looking up to find Trish sitting on the library's table relaxed him to some extent, and he scowled. “Use a chair like everyone else before they throw us out.”

She laughed, and he cringed at her volume, which was certain to bring attention to them. She did not move an inch from her current position, either.

“I'm glad to see you brought the Yamato.”

Vergil's hand shot to the sword at his side. It had earned him stares from the librarians upon entering the premise, but they must have assumed it was a prop. He glared at Trish.

“Why, don’t you also think I should be disowned? Stripped of my birthright?”

Her easy smile turned into a thin line and she leaned back, stretching almost languorously. Between that and the tight, barely-covering black leather, Vergil was certain few could resist Trish’s charms, but he found he couldn’t care less about it and he knew it wasn’t meant for him: every time he’d seen her, she’d sat in a similar way. This was just how she was.

“I know a demon can turn away from darkness for the sake of people he loves,” she answered. “You know what I am, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Mundus’s puppet, created in the likeness of their mother in order to lure Dante to Mallet Island. He remembered only fragments of her life, but that part? That part he knew all too well. “Riddle me this, Trish. When he created you, where do you think Mundus found our mother’s likeness? He certainly had no access to Dante’s mind.”

Her lips parted, but she offered no replies. She studied him in silence instead, her uncanny green eyes setting him on edge. He hadn’t known Trish, not really, only _of_ her, and he wasn’t keen on changing that. The resemblance with his mother always put him off guard. Since she wasn’t volunteering any thoughts, he decided to explain.

“It is hard to know what I forgot due to the passage of time, and what was ripped away from me. But certainly, my childhood memories seem too devoid of my mother for time to be the only explanation. I remember Dante perfectly well. Her, however…” He waved a hand as if scattering smoke. He did have some memories, but the void left by others was a weigh in his mind, a torn in his heart he refused to consider too closely. “So, yes, I know what you are. I was present when he shaped you, and he made a point to leave me _that_ particular memory.”

“Splendid.” She brought her knee back to her, her second leg still extended--that, he recalled, had been the wounded one. “Do you answer everyone’s simple questions with angst, or is that just me?”

“I--” The strangled sound was all he could get past his shame. Trish had the decency to save him from further humiliation.

“I just need you to stab my leg, Vergil.”

“You _what_?” He scowled, then. “Is that some new slang again?”

“I’m afraid I’m being quite literal.” She allowed the leather encasing her wounded leg to vanish. A blackened crust covered the skin under. “This refuses to heal. It’s where the black sludge hit me, and I’ve felt it dig into my muscles ever since. I’ve seen you draw those sickly crystals out of other demons with the Yamato, however.”

“The Yamato killed these demons,” he pointed out.

She set a hand on her hip. “Kill me and Lady will make sure you’re next in line.”

“Charming.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea why the Yamato was effective against these object-possessing demons, and he had no desire to try untested and misunderstood hypotheses on Trish’s leg. “Must I make you sign a waiver relieving me of any responsibilities should an unfortunate turn of events occur?”

She leaned forward. “Do you want me to bind it in demon blood, too?”

“I do have a traditional streak.” He rose and, fingers around the Yamato’s grip, he gestured towards the exit. “Let’s find a quieter area.”

“Oh, back alley stabbing, I like that.”

Vergil hissed out a sigh and walked past her. Trish’s dark sense of humour might sit better with him under different circumstances, but at the present moment, the accusations against him and his own oversharing spoiled the mood. She slid down the table and followed him out, her limp from the wound well concealed. They passed the librarian on their way out, and Vergil thanked her for her service; keeping shelves in order was a never-ending battle few properly recognized.

Once outside, he took the quickest way to a less-passing area, then spun on his heels and faced Trish. She leaned against the wall and uncovered her leg once more. Vergil examined it for a moment, wondering… Perhaps he didn’t need to cut through.

“Don’t move,” he warned, even though he could’ve done this without breaking a sweat had she dashed around. Trish’s eyebrows shot up, and Vergil set to work, freezing time and slashing the crust on her leg in tiny little pieces. They shattered into the increasingly-familiar green crystals and he sheathed the Yamato before time sped up again, but Trish only shook her head.

“That’s very fancy, Vergil, but as I said, I need you to stab the leg.” She bent and ran a hand over the now-smooth skin. “Once, I slashed open my arm badly, and Mundus decided to fix it. He plunged me into something--a dark basin--and it felt like needles digging into my soul. This is what the sludge felt like. It still does. You only removed the surface. Excise it.”

Horror crawled along Vergil's spine at her description. It rang too close to what Mundus’s corruption had been like--claws into him, tearing him apart, hammering at his free will, his honour. And the fleck of black ooze touching him… Sweat broke over him and the world unhinged itself, growing more distant. It had felt so _familiar_. What if--? No. Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, and it was a long time before he realized he had the alley wall at his back. Had he stumbled backward? How long had he stayed there, wobbling like his legs would give in, control over himself completely lost? He focused on the hard stones at his back, on the Yamato's patterned grip under his fingers, the stench of the city around him, the blazing summer heat, even in the alley's shadow. He was here, he was himself. Slowly, he cracked his eyes opened again. Trish stared back at him. His mouth had gone awfully dry, but he managed to croak out a few words.

“Very well. I shall excise it.”

And without another word, he plunged the Yamato into her leg and set all of his will against this abomination, grasping for it as if he could excise Mundus himself--out of Trish, yes, but out of himself more than anything. The katana vibrated with his anger and revulsion, and the wrongness within Trish gathered to it, clung to the perfect blade as though it sought to corrupt it, too. Vergil yanked it out, drawing a pained cry out of Trish and spraying blood over his coat. She stumbled and caught herself on the wall as the sickly green crystals dissipated.

“Does it still sting now?” Vergil asked, ice in his voice.

Trish forced a smile through her pained grimace, golden hair sticking to her forehead. “Yes, but this is physical. It will heal.”

“Good.” Vergil flicked blood off the Yamato, then sheathed it again with a flourish. His heart hammered and blood thumped against his temples, obscuring the sounds of the city around him. Undesired memories buzzed within his skull and his skin crawled, itchy and wrong.

“Vergil…” Trish’s voice sounded distant, even though she was right there, in front of him. He tried to focus on her as she set a hand on her hip. “Dante sealed him away.”

He glared at her, hating that she’d so easily read him, that she could tell how bothered he was despite his best efforts. “He killed me, too, yet here I am.”

She had no counter for this, only a thoughtful frown. “Fair. But it could be a hundred different things.”

Of course it could, and yet Vergil’s mind screamed at him to prepare for the worst. This new life had been too much to hope for. From the moment demons had attacked his family, Mundus had dogged every instant of his life, pursuing him as a child and corrupting him as an adult. It had been a mistake to believe he’d ever be rid of him, to let his guard down and his hopes up like this, to stop seeking the strength to protect himself. He had so much more power now, and yet he _still_ lost to others. What if it still wasn’t enough?

It was… best not to think of it. Vergil wrenched his thoughts away from the possibility, knowing all too well where this path could lead. He had wanted to be free of it, to recenter his life on something new, yet it seemed his past was decided to cling to him.

“We shall see.” With barely a nod at Trish, he walked off without looking back, letting his feet guide him wherever they wanted. Maybe if he walked fast and long enough, he could shake off the worst of his fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all due apologies to Vergil's memories, I could not resist. :]
> 
> Next chapter is coming right on my 30th birthday and OH BOY, is it like a gift of feels to myself. Really can't wait for that update!


	13. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil hasn't been sleeping and when Dante finds out why, he decides to remind him of a few basic truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick upkeep note: I unlocked the comments to make them available to all two weeks ago and this time remained miraculously hate free!! So if you've been reading but don't have an account, you should be able to comment now, thank god! Everyone's comments have really been a blast, seriously, and I'm super thrilled to be able to do this. 
> 
> Anyway. This chapter. It is shorter than usual? I wrote this one with Legacy playing on loop, and I highly recommend it for Maximum Feels. Kinda thrilled this one arrives on the heels of the fifth chapter in Visions of V, because y'all are going to be really primed for it. XD Things that might also make it better: rewatching the DMC3 ending and having read the chapter notes of the DMC5 novel. 'nough rambling, though, let's get to it!!

Vergil’s knees buckled as the Yamato absorbed the weight of Dante’s overhead strike and he barely held on, his arms and legs screaming at the effort. The hot sun beat on his neck and his sleeveless shirt was drenched with sweat. Dante--clad in nothing but loose pants--met his gaze and smirked as spinning red blades shimmered into existence and slashed at him, forcing Vergil to disengage and leap backward. His brother was upon him before he even landed with another powerful swing, this one catching the Yamato near the grip and almost wrenching it out of his grip. Vergil gasped as the shock spread through his arms, then cursed himself for the sound, the hint of his struggle. Dante didn’t miss it. 

“What’s up, Vergil? Already tired? We’re just starting.”

That was a lie, they had been sparring for at least an hour now, but Vergil knew that wasn’t the problem. The problem--the reason for his infuriating weakness--was that he had been utterly unable to sleep for more than a handful of minutes since healing Trish’s leg. Ghosts of Nelo Angelo trailed him, Mundus’s deep voice bouncing through his skull, mocking him, clinging to his skin. _How disgraceful._ Whenever he stopped moving, he could feel Mundus’s dark power engulf him, the armour’s spikes digging into his back, the poison seeping into his veins, corroding his will, his very sense of self.

He had taken to going out at night, walking in endless circles around the city, hoping to burn through his excess anxious energy and find a modicum of calm. For a time, reciting the layered verses of William Blake had kept the worst at bay, the words like a shield against the past. No amount of walking could tire him, however--curse his demon powers for the stamina, and curse his human feelings for the haunted memories! Even with Nico around blathering about everything and nothing while they prepared their prank, or with Nero nearby, lending a silent hand, he couldn’t keep his mind from slipping away into its darkest corners.

Vergil _was_ already tired, but he certainly would not admit that to Dante.

He forced his body on the offensive, chaining a flurry of quick strikes and forcing Dante back before warping up with a twirl, reappearing above his brother and coming down hard and fast, setting a knee on the ground. Dante stepped away at the last moment, deflecting the blow in part with his own blade, then _kicked_ at Vergil. He caught the foot with his hand, surprised by the audacity--since when was this a brawl?--and twisted at Dante’s ankle, forcing him back. His brother was still jumping from one foot to the next, grinning, while Vergil lumbered back up.

“Aah, we really should’ve kept this going once we’d returned!” Dante exclaimed, stretching his arms back. He’d let the Devil Sword vanish, as if he didn’t even need it, but Vergil knew it’d be back within his hands with a flicker of his mind. “Nothing like a little exercise after a good night of rest, right Vergil?”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. That was twice Dante touched upon sleep or tiredness, and his brother had never been known for subtlety. Should he have been more wary earlier this morning, when Dante had offered to spend the rest of the morning sparring? Vergil had been staring at his book, unable to grasp at the words before him, and the offer had been too good to refuse--even if it meant riding his dangerous motorcycle. If anything could truly exhaust him, it would be a fight with Dante.

“Of course,” he threw back, and he rushed Dante just as his twin sprinted forward. 

Their swords clashed--once, twice, thrice--brothers spinning in a familiar dance of strikes and parries, then the two legendary blade locked to each other, the grinding sound echoing in the empty clearing. Dante leaned hard, bangs half covering his eyes.

“Glad to hear that, Vergil, ‘cause I was startin’ to wonder whether you slept at all.”

Vergil ground his teeth, pushing back. “Don’t be a fool. Of course I do.” He had made a point of slipping back inside before dawn each day, settling down on the couch hours before Dante ever woke up.

“Oh, really?” Dante disengaged then struck again, hammering against the Yamato until Vergil caught the Devil Sword barely an inch off his shoulder, at the most awkward of angles. “Where?” He leaned over his sword and whispered in Vergil’s ear. “Here’s a secret. I messed up your neat lil’ bed two days ago to prank you, and it’s still undone.”

Cold shock spread through Vergil, and Dante used the opportunity to push hard, shoving him off balance. He slammed a palm in Vergil’s chest, unleashing gathered energy and sending him flying back, too stunned to even recover with a roll. Vergil barely registered the Yamato’s clang as it landed on the ground where he’d dropped it. Arms and back burning, he stared at the blue summer sky drifting above him, a hundred knots forming in his stomach. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know about the sleeplessness. It was too private and too raw to expose, his inside as webbed with cracks as his crumbling body had been.

“It’s Mundus, isn’t it?” Dante asked, leaving him no escape.

Vergil pushed himself up with one arm, using every ounce of self-control he had left to keep his expression to a tight cold sneer. “You’ve spoken with Trish, I see.”

“I have.” By comparison, Dante’s tone was all softness and warmth. He let the Devil Sword disappear once more. “She said the story should come from you.”

He didn’t want it to. Vergil sat up, folding one leg closer but leaving the other out, and he turned away, his gaze sweeping the verdant clearing around them. Wind brushed through the trees’ leaves, their soft whisper filling in the silence that stretched on, and the occasional chorus of chirps and chants rose up. Entirely human-world sounds, once taken for granted, until he’d lost them for over twenty years. Vergil pressed his lips together, refusing to yield. What had transpired between Mundus and him--what he’d lost down there in Hell, to pain, to despair and defeat… Some things were not meant to be shared.

“Vergil…”

A crystalline _clink_ echoed through the clearing, beautiful and instantly familiar. The sound of a small chain, tied to the most precious gem of all. Vergil caught movement at the corner of his eyes and snatched the amulet out of the air without even looking. Its weight--doubled, he noted--sent warmth through his chest, expanding it, smoothing out the painful knots in it. He didn’t dare glance at it, uncertain he could remain stoic through the inevitable surge of feelings tied to it.

Once… alone in Hell, his will whittled down by a timeless battle to resist Mundus’s control, Vergil had submitted to him, exchanged the brittle shreds of his freedom for his mother’s amulet. The amulet belonged to a Son of Sparda--it was _his_. He had lost his family, lost the Yamato, but he would not lose this last sliver of himself. Mundus had already eroded so much, he’d barely remembered himself through the pain and humiliation. He had needed the amulet; one last memory of Vergil Sparda, of the legacy being erased from him. 

Vergil had never imagined Dante might still have it.

“I got a story for you,” Dante said, and Vergil reluctantly turned to him. Sweat glistened across his skin as he spread out his arms and started towards Vergil in a slow, casual pace. “Legends say that when Sparda got twins, he split everything into two.” 

Vergil rolled his eyes. He knew that story. _Of course_ he did. What was Dante’s point, exactly? But his brother went on, undeterred. 

“First, he split his power...” 

Dante's devil form flickered into existence around him with a brief, glorious demonic pulse. 

“--then his legendary swords…” 

He kicked the Yamato up with his foot, catching it with ease and giving it a twirl.

“--and, finally, he split the key to the Underworld, Eva’s amulet.” 

This time, Vergil needed no prompting to look down at the necklace in his hands, its pinkish red burning bright in the sunlight. It was so warm, even through his gloves. Could Dante even imagine how much it meant to him? Did he have the slightest idea of what Vergil had ceded, for a chance to keep it at his neck?

“Each half of power thus split is dangerous enough on its own,” Dante continued, before crouching next to Vergil, who stubbornly kept his eyes on the joined amulet, “but _together_ … they are an unstoppable force.”

“Sparda's power,” Vergil whispered, his voice cracking. He tightened his hand around the amulet--two halves of a whole--his throat thick. He understood Dante’s clumsy, heartfelt point. After all this time, he understood, and Dante's own words from a time long past echoed through him. “We are the Sons of Sparda. Within us flows his blood, but more importantly…  his soul. _We_ are Sparda's power. Together.”

Dante sat down next to him and slapped his shoulder hard, leaving his arm there, but when he spoke there was something equally rough in his voice. “And now you _finally_ get it. The Sparda family--you, me, Nero… We were never meant to fight. We were meant to stand together. And if all this bullshit is Mundus? Well, he just doesn't know what’s coming for him.”

Vergil pressed his thumb against the amulet, drawing strength from its soft, tranquil power. _The Sparda family._ Had he ever considered Dante as anything but a rival? When had he started thinking of him as someone who had taken from him--taken his mother’s love, taken his father’s power--things that should have rightfully been his alone? The first time Vergil had heard the story of Sparda splitting his power in two, it had filled him with anger and bitterness. There should have been only one son, one heir--him. Vergil set two fingers over his chest, right where the Yamato had first been plunged, decades ago in a disused graveyard in Red Grave City, and where he’d pushed it in again, so much more recently. That scar would never heal, but perhaps others, deeper ones…

He closed his eyes, breathing in summer grass and sweat, taking in the arm around his shoulder, the amulet in his hand. Nightmares had plagued his days, leeching at his strength, draining his reserves. All of his defeats, all of his mistakes… All this time, he had been so _alone_. But that wasn’t true anymore, was it? Here, in this clearing where the sun shone, Dante sat by his side. He would never be alone again--not with Mundus, but not with his grief and pain either.

Dante was waiting for an answer, but Vergil had none for him. Instead--because he was exhausted, dragged thin by sleepless nights, because they were alone and no one else would know, because the cracks had grown too wide for him to bear alone and because, here with Dante, maybe he didn’t need to pretend, didn’t need to encase his heart in stone and pray it wouldn’t shatter--Vergil silently leaned back in his brother’s arms. He found them waiting, a knee at his back to hold him up, two muscled arms wrapping around him, and thus secured in Dante’s space--Dante’s _love_ \--his mother’s amulet digging into his palm, Vergil broke and allowed a first wracking sob to escape him. It tore through his throat, shaking his entire body, loosening the digs that had long held his tears until they burst through, unstoppable and unwelcome, filling his silence when words had failed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!! VERGIL MAY CRY. On my birthday, no less. I know how to self-gift. :] I have MANY FEELINGS. About Vergil, but also about Dante being best bro <3
> 
> By the way, I've said so in a few comments, but if you're on Twitter, I'm fairly active there as @WritingSquid.


	14. Redecoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil's long-planned prank finally comes to fruition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here!! It's been weeks since the prank is first mentioned, and it is now HAPPENING. Enjoy the much fluffier chapter after that big dose of feels haha. :)

Not a word had passed between Vergil and Dante about their sparring session since it had happened. They both pretended it hadn’t, which was exactly what Vergil wanted. He had taken to sleeping on the couch, Philip Glass’s rhythms filling the silence, their mother's amulet clutched in his hands. He still didn't get much rest, truth be told, but the restlessness had diminished to some extent and he'd focused the what was left of it on his grand scheme. The day had finally come, and while Dante was out devouring a strawberry sundae or three, they had set to redecorating the _Devil May Cry_.

Nero had proven a great addition to their set-up team. Between the wings and the extra arms, he’d installed almost all the miscellaneous blue banners, ropes, shiny bows, and balloons Vergil had managed to find in stores around the city, hanging some directly from the high ceiling. Vergil had meanwhile managed to set a few of his printed screenshots, only to notice new empty pizza boxes… and the stains on the desk and walls… and the dust balls hugging the walls--and before he’d realized what he was doing, he had set out to clean this entire place thoroughly. They’d invited the whole crew to witness their handiwork at Nico’s insistence, and he refused to let it be marred by Dante’s never-ending mess.

While they worked on the overall decoration, Nico brought the central piece to life. She dragged a life-size Dante, painstakingly painted over during the last few days, and assembled the different parts together--legs, arms, chest, the Devil Sword Dante, even Ebony and Ivory at back, on which Nico had pointedly reproduced her grandmother’s effigy. She’d created an inside skeleton to hold him, and Vergil belatedly realized it had actual articulations to it when she folded Dante’s arm to set the sword on his shoulder. He stared at it, the bag of gathered trash still in his hand, stunned by the resemblance. 

“What a wonder,” he said. “I’ve always dreamed of a blessedly silent Dante.”

Nico snorted with laughter, and a roll of blue paper garland flew across the room at him from Nero’s general direction. Vergil smiled, then headed to the door with his trash.

It opened inward before he could reach for it, almost smashing into him. Vergil jumped back as Lady and Trish strode in, one with an arm thrown over the other’s shoulders. Trish whistled as she swept the room with her gaze while Lady immediately ran to the Dante model, grinning. 

“Is that my new target practice, Nico?” She swiped a gun out and pressed the trigger, and for a brief instant Vergil’s heart squeezed in painful panic--then the gun clicked, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Lady stored it with a spin and bent forward. “He looks great. You did all that?”

“You bet I did. It’s--”

“Are you gonna say work of art?” Nero called from the balcony, leaning upon it as he unrolled the biggest banner of them all--a deep royal blue with twin snakes design. “Everything’s a work of art with you.”

“Well if that ain’t true, nothing is!” Nico crossed her arms. “Happens when you’re just overflowin’ with talent, lil’ bro.”

“Talent or desillusions, you pick.” Nero swung himself over the balcony, landing hard on the desk. “Isn’t it missing something? Where’s the billboard?”

She gestured in the direction of the largest version Vergil had printed of the screenshot, then set into a beautiful blue frame. It was several feet high and fit snugly under Dante’s extended left hand, its bottom resting on the floor, as though their model Dante was holding it up. Trish burst into a sweet laughter as she read the inscription, then glanced over her shoulder at Vergil, who’d remained in the doorway, trash in hand.

“If you’re the most powerful, why are _you_ doing all the cleaning?”

“I was given to understand that in modern slang, ‘taking out the trash’ and ‘defeating Dante’ were reasonably equivalent.”

A wave of silence washed over the entire room--all except Nico, who emitted a high-pitched noise so unlike her usual laugh, Vergil wasn’t entirely convinced he should count it as such. Trish squinted at him, as if she couldn’t decide if he understood the words he’d just pronounced, and Lady outright scowled--nothing unusual there, really. It was Nero who first broke the silence.

“Did you… make a joke?” he asked. “‘Cause that’d mean you’ve given your sense of humour a real upgrade, and I ain’t sure how I feel about that.”

Vergil was starting to think he didn’t know how to feel about it either, if this cold shock was the reaction any such impulse would get him. He might reconsider, but this one he unfortunately needed to carry through to the end. “I’m afraid I was, indeed, not remotely serious.”

“V-man, where d’ya even learn about the trash? At this rate ya won’t need me teachin’ you anything, young padawan.” 

He tilted his head to the side, certain he had heard that reference before, long ago, but unable to place it. Best to ignore it. “Someone told me once I discovered today’s internet, I would have found true power.”

Lady’s sharp laugh drifted to him as he turned his back on them to bring the trash bag outside, away from the _Devil May Cry_ door. Dante ought to be back soon, and Vergil couldn’t help but worry about his reaction to the prank. Surely, his good-natured brother would laugh. If even Lady found the idea amusing…

Besides, it would help them move past that training session. Neither of them might have mentioned it, but Vergil could feel Dante’s gaze trail him when he thought he wasn’t looking, and he found himself doing the same, eyeing his brother’s easy movements, wondering at the depths they hid, remembering solid arms around him as control escaped him and tears streamed out, silent and unyielding. Vergil had no idea how long he’d cried, nor how long he’d stayed unmoving afterward--he might have slept there, truly. He’d eventually come to his senses, however, and hot shame had returned with those. It still lingered, burning up his neck whenever he met Dante’s gaze. 

He shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have let Dante see how badly damaged Mundus had left him-- _no one_ should know that. It was too late now, however. This secret was out, and the most disturbing part of it all was that when he looked past the shame, Vergil found he didn’t entirely regret it. Still. This was an anomaly, best put behind them. If he could think instead of Dante’s face when he would enter his home, now laden with blue and containing a life-sized version of him, his mind would be more at peace.

The now familiar sound of Cavaliere ripping through town, engine rumbling and tires screeching, reached Vergil as he dumped the bag. He hurried back inside, calling for everyone to “get ready”, his tone almost battle-ready. They crowded behind the couch and shifted its angle to offer better protection, and Nero readied his phone to film. 

It occurred to Vergil he had given absolutely no thoughts to where he wanted to locate himself in his own masterpiece, but the answer felt obvious. He hurried to the life-sized Dante and pushed it closer to the desk, slightly to the side, before leaping over the furniture and settling himself into Dante’s chair. He had just enough time to set his boots on the desk and his hair behind his head, forcibly relaxing his posture to resemble his brother’s, before the door swung open.

Dante stopped cold as he stepped inside, his hands twitching towards his guns before he truly registered what had changed in his office. A frank, bark-like laugh escaped him and he spread his arms out, spinning on himself as he walked in. Vergil barely managed to hold still--his heart was pounding from the thrill of the prank and plans coming to fruition, from Dante’s obvious pleasure at it, and from anticipation at him finally spotting the central piece by the desk. Dante stopped his spin and strode closer, a skip in his step, blue eyes shining. 

“Back to being a garbage god, Vergil? Is the _Devil May Cry_ your new dominion?”

Vergil ran his hand over the surface of the desk, tilting his chin up and sneering. “I’m afraid so, brother. And according to the internet, you do not have the power to stop me.”

He tilted the angle of his boots to indicate the plastic Dante next to the desk and his delightfully oblivious brother _finally_ noticed the life-sized version of himself hanging around his office, holding the framed reproduction of Dante’s wikipedia page. Dante visibly startled at it, then laughed even more. 

“That’s--” He stopped, eyes reading the page, and snorted so hard it sounded actually painful. “Don’t believe what you read on the internet, Vergil. I’ll kick your ass all right. This is my office!”

For all his bluster, Dante was too distracted to even look back at Vergil. He brushed the fake Devil Sword with the tip of his fingers, then stepped back and mimicked the plastic Dante’s position. Vergil hoped Nero had a good angle on this, because from where he sat, he couldn’t see most of his brother’s expressions. Hopefully his big, goofy grin hadn’t diminished in the slightest. Vergil set his foot to the ground and rose just as Dante started _babbling_ , words pouring out in an excited wave that had nothing to do with his usual sass.

“This is fantastic! I can’t believe you finally got me the twin I always dreamed off, Vergil. Isn’t he just absolutely sexy?” He blew a kiss at himself, laughing. “I need to find him a rose, up the ante a bit. And he can hold Faust, too, while I’m not wearing it. A true heart-stopper.” He turned to Vergil, then, grinning so hard it had to hurt. “Is that what you’ve been doing with Nico all this time? It has to be. That kind of quality--”

“Ah! What did I tell you, lil’ bro?” Nico interrupted, her voice bursting clear from behind the couch.

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose just as Nero exclaimed, “Nico! Shhh!” but by then it was too late, and Lady and Trish were both laughing too. It didn’t really matter, either way. They had gotten the reaction they wanted, and it filled Vergil with a ridiculous amount of pride.

“It is, of course, Nico’s work,” he confirmed as he motioned for them to come out. “I had help.”

Nero rose, keeping the camera steady for a last close up, then he shut down his phone and leaped over the couch. Trish and Lady had both rolled over it, too, settling into the old thing half over one another. Nico bounced out, running to her model with barely-held together dignity.

“I-I hope you like, Dante, mister. Been an honour to make. Epic trolling a-aside, I mean.” She paused for a brief second, barely enough to breathe. “It’s articulated, too!”

“It is?” Dante grabbed one of his model’s arms and lifted it, practically vibrating with excitement. “Hell yeah! This has got to be one of the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me. Picture this.” He stepped back and formed a square with his fingers, pointing it at the desk like he was holding a camera. “Morrison visits with a job. In the chair, Fake-Dante rests, magazine over his eyes. I’m off enjoying the best strawberry sundaes the city has to offer, and the contract stays on my desk until my return, sparing me the boring details. Think it’ll work, Trish?”

Trish stretched an arm over the couch’s back and shook her head. “He’ll sense something wrong the moment you’re not _telling_ him the job’s dreadful.” 

“I like the plan, though,” Lady said. “He’d just bring all the jobs to me instead.”

Trish pushed at Lady’s leg with her heel. “And then you’d come to me for demon hunting company, babe, so it’s really all the same.” 

“Just so you don’t get bored hanging with Dante all the time.”  Lady stuck her tongue at her.

“In what world is hanging with me _ever_ boring?” Dante protested. “You ladies just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They rolled their eyes, and Vergil had the sense of a conversation oft held, in a myriad of different variants, across the years. It was a striking reminder that in the twenty years Vergil had been gone, corrupted or dead, Dante had built a life for himself--meandering and messy, perhaps, but one nonetheless. Which, in a way, meant Dante was twenty years ahead of him, and that couldn’t stand. It was high time Vergil figured out what he wanted to do with his own and set to it. Provided, of course, nothing shattered his plans this time.

A slap on his shoulder brought him back to the ambient laughter, and he turned to find Dante smiling at him. “You really went all out on this.”

“As one must.” 

He clasped his hands behind his back and looked around, at all the silly blue decorations they’d hung around the _Devil May Cry_ office space. It felt eerie, that this had been his idea and his doing. This entire prank was an entirely ridiculous idea, serving no other purpose than his own amusement, but perhaps that had been the point all along. He had proof now that he could simply live and set himself tasks that had nothing to do with the demon world and its power struggles--that he existed apart from it, too. He had been Sparda’s Heir, and Nelo Angelo, and both V and Urizen, but now he was _Vergil_ , and he decided what that meant, and if he wanted it to include elaborate and silly surprises for Dante, then it absolutely would.

“It’ll give you something to remember me by,” he said.

His words doused the joyful mood in a cold shower, and Vergil felt the shift as a rod of sudden tension in his shoulder blades. They all stared at him in shocked silence, except Dante, whose grin had shifted to the familiar, watch-me-not-care smirk under which he buried weaknesses.

“Planning to leave us so soon, Vergil?”

“Ah.” That’s what he’d said wrong. Did they expect him to vanish again, to leave and never return? He could see how his words would be mistaken, yet for a moment, he was too shocked by the intensity of their reaction--did they truly care that much?--to properly react. The hesitation lasted longer than Nero’s patience. 

“You _fuck_!”

A jolt of demonic energy followed Nero’s shout. Bright blue wings flared behind him, his skin glistened as it started shifting, and his nails lengthened into claws. But more than the transformation, it was the pure betrayal in his voice that whipped through Vergil, shattering his stunned inaction.

“I’m not!” He blurted the words out with none of his usual composure, for which he scrambled in the silence that followed. When he managed to speak again, his voice was steadier, colder, masking the frantic pace of his heart. He stared at Nero, even as he addressed Dante’s question. “I only meant that this is Dante’s space, and I cannot forever occupy it.”

Nero continued to glare at him, but only his wings remained of the quickly-incoming devil form. He said nothing, nor did he need to.

“I don’t mind you here,” Dante said.

“I mind,” Vergil replied, and he fell back on years of practiced arrogance before adding, “This place is a porcherie, and I shall not act as your maid for the reminder of my days.” This drew an awkward snort-laugh out of Nico, and with it she thankfully broke some of the tension lingering still. Vergil forced himself to break eye contact with Nero and meet his brother’s eyes. “And so, eventually, I will desire my own place, filled with books far beyond your culture, the most intricate music created in this world, and a level of cleanliness you cannot dream of. But not now, and likely not far from here--how else could we keep sparring?”

“Damn right you’re not allowed to go far,” Dante said. “I’ve made a promise to keep an eye on you, remember?”

And he’d done so admirably well, but there were too many people here for Vergil to admit such a thing, so he held himself to a slight nod. 

Another silence slipped between them, but Dante didn’t allow this one to last long. They all needed an amusing escape, and he would always be the master of those. “So that’s what this prank is all about, huh? Gotta own the place and make it comfortable while you’re around.”

“Evidently,” Vergil responded, voice smooth, “and you may furthermore consider it as fact that I have no intention of removing any of the new decor, either, and that it shall remain in place until _you_ take the necessary steps to clean.”

Dante made an exaggerated sound of disgust and threw his arms up. “If I _must_ call Patty, I will! She’s eighteen and dangerous, Vergil. You don’t want to mess with her.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, Dante?” Trish asked. “Patty would agree with him on the cleaning.”

“You don’t want both of them beating your ass over this shit, yeah,” Lady agreed. “None of us wants that. This place’s better when it’s a mess.”

How very subtle. Vergil stared at her, and she stared right back. Dante ignored both of them--or, more likely, didn’t notice at all.

“Yeah, good point. Guess I’ll just have to burn the place to the ground, then.” He spread his arms hard and dropped them dramatically. “Unless my friend Fake-Dante can animate itself and do all that cleaning, there’s just no way we can salvage all that blue.”

“A tragedy,” Vergil said.

After that, the conversation moved away from the decorations and Vergil’s potential departure, back to the life-size model and Nero’s much more imminent return to Fortuna. Vergil’s mind kept drifting away, to the half-formed plans he hadn’t intended to mention today, and how much he still needed to decide. It didn’t feel right, to set himself on a new path with the threat of Mundus looming, and so much still to understand about what was happening in the human world, yet once Nero and Nico left, he’d have much less to busy himself with, and he suspected staying in the _Devil May Cry_ would make him restless, unhappy. And if he wanted to leave, then he needed to pay his own bills. He had absolutely no intention of mooching off Dante’s demon hunter business for those, even though he knew Dante would let him.

Mundus or no Mundus, he would have to find himself a job, and while that seemed foolishly ordinary, the prospect of learning new skills to achieve this goal filled him with the familiar thrill of a new challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have made the summary of this fic "In which everyone is having a good time until Vergil says something whack and ruins the mood again" :] He hasn't entirely learned to human in large groups again. XD


	15. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero drags Vergil to one last meal before his return to Fortuna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a bit of a short chapter this week, but it's pretty self-contained and important. <3

Vergil hadn’t expected a dinner with Nero. They hadn’t been alone since fighting together in the chocolate coin factory, and neither had deliberately reached out for the other since Nero’s very first visit, a month ago. The closest was when Nico had busied herself with parts of the life-sized Dante model, leaving them to paint over the other bits, and they’d quickly figured out the best method to get what they wanted: Vergil painted the base colours, and Nero took over, creating lights and shadow effects then detailing the parts. Neither had spoken unless necessary, except for the one time Nero scolded him for taking so long, as if everyone could paint with the skills and speed he exhibited. Not exactly a shining moment of father and son bonding, in his book.

But when Nero wanted something, he went for the throat, and the boy had taken Vergil aside while everyone chatted about the prank and told him he intended to enjoy one last american burger with his father before he left, and he was taking him out whether he liked it or not.

Vergil very much liked it, anyway, even if the amount of fries in his plate was daunting. He would never eat this much, probably wouldn’t even get through half of the spinach and nut burger he’d chosen from the menu, and it worried him to some extent that he would be unable to hide his derelict appetite from Nero. That, much like his trouble with sleep, was the kind of information Dante could be privy to and absolutely no one else. It already felt like one person too many.

So Vergil forced himself to eat, getting fries and burger in his stomach while Nero finally held his end of their bargain and told him about Kyrie--about how they met and the orphanage she had now, about her incredible singing voice and how he used to attend church just to hear her, about their small moments together, after a long day of work, when they shared warm tea and he sketched her while she sang. Most of all, he spoke of the strength of her kindness, how she used it to shield others from the world's harm, toiling relentlessly to repair Fortuna and let others know they deserved love and had hers. Vergil kept his face neutral as he listened, struggling with the fierce adoration pouring out of Nero. Kyrie was so clearly everything he wasn't--humble, kind, honest, and loving--and Nero loved her profoundly for it.

It was beautiful, and in a way he was proud of Nero, but it left him with a dull ache.

Nero paused to chomp down on his burger, and for an awkward moment there was nothing but the sound of his chewing. Vergil sipped his drink.

“Don't think I didn't notice you letting me do all the talking, asshole.” Nero picked up one of his fries, glaring at him.

“It's my due. You had promised to tell me in exchange of the prank and never did.”

“I promised to punch your face, too, and didn’t.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Vergil pointed out. 

Their gazes snapped to one another, full of challenge, and Vergil felt the thrum of demonic energy between them, waiting to be unleashed, amplified by the Yamato’s reaction to Nero. If this had been anywhere else than a restaurant full of people, they would’ve sprang into action, reenacting their contest. Instead, Nero snapped a fry up and flung it across the table, so fast Vergil almost failed to catch it. 

“I’ll get you,” Nero promised.

Vergil snorted and set the fry down between them. “Dante keeps saying that, too.”

“We ought to team up. You can’t dodge _everything_.”

He pictured himself in a contest against both Dante and Nero at the same time. If his only objective was to avoid a hit, he would last much longer than Nero expected, he was certain of it. Vergil leveled his gaze at Nero, his blood pumping with the thrill of an interesting challenge. “Try me.” 

Nero flung himself back in his chair with a groan. “Gosh, I wish we had the time! I miss Kyrie, but no one fights like Dante and you in Fortuna. Going home is gonna suck for training.”

Vergil gritted his teeth. He had done his best not to think about Nero’s departure, even though he knew he could use the internet to stay in contact, that Dante would never refuse him such a thing. It wouldn’t be the same, and as little as they’d actually talked, Vergil had clung to his presence while they built the prank as proof Nero wanted something, _anything_ , to do with him. What if being home in Fortuna knocked sense back into him? Vergil forcefully quelled the hopes and fears before any of it reached his face.

“Afraid we’ll surpass you while you’re not looking, son?” 

Nero startled at the question, and for a confused moment Vergil tried to understand what had provoked him so, why he stared at him now, fire in his eyes, his expression passing through anger and fear and joy, all of it open to read, all of it moving so fast Vergil could hardly make sense of it anyway. 

Then it struck him, that in the course of the last month, he had _never_ called Nero ‘son’, even though he hardly ever thought of the bright young man as anything but that now, and he regretted dropping it so casually, without making it count for something more. Another opportunity lost.

“Like you two old men will ever stand a chance,” Nero answered, his voice a little clipped--enough that he changed the topic immediately. “So it’s been a month since I asked. Any new plans?”

Vergil would’ve rather picked almost any other subject, but he wanted to linger on Nero’s surprise at his use of ‘son’ even less. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the table as he considered his answer. 

“Well, demon souls are possessing objects in the human world and traversing the veil through means we mostly do not understand, so that is a mystery I intend to solve.” His voice had remained steady, smooth. Good. No need for Nero to hear about Mundus or anything tied to him. This was not a past Vergil had any desire to revisit with him. “Furthermore, I had considered investigating accounting classes in order to ensure the _Devil May Cry_ does not fall prey to Dante’s ill-considered spending habits.”

Nero had been drinking his soda, and he choked at the mention of accounting, almost spitting it out. “Accounting?”

“Well, yes.” Was it this absurd? It had made sense to Vergil. “I have always been skilled with words and numbers alike, and in the human world, money is power, is it not?”

“Don’t put it that way,” Nero said with a grimace. “So you’ll what, sit in a class with kids younger than I am? Like, regular school?”

Vergil had not given it that much thought, but the prospect of hours surrounded by immature child convinced they understood the world even remotely… Besides, there were several logistical problems to him attending a school, considerations of paperwork he would not doubt get a headache over. Not to mention he had no desire to separate himself from the Yamato for several hours at a time, and he doubted a decent university would allow him to bring such a powerful artifact into a class setting. No, attending such a formal course was foolishness, but there had to be manuals out there, and Vergil was nothing if not a fast learner.

“I bet there’s lots of stuff online, y’know,” Nero said. “Classes and tutorials and shit. Nico’s been teaching you tech stuff, no? With her help, you ought to be able to get around.”

With her help, maybe. Vergil briefly marvelled at just how much information the internet seemed to hold now. He’d returned to Wikipedia several times over the last month, sometimes spending hours reading articles within articles, squinting at the text through the cracks of the half-shattered screen on the old phone Nico had thrown his way. Online classes might be an option, true, though he would need to learn much more than to follow links.

“Is Nico not leaving, too? Later than you are, but I was given to understand the _Devil May Cry_ van was also scheduled for departure.”

“Huh, yeah. It is. Thing is...” Nero trailed off, and ran a hand through his short white hair, and Vergil’s stomach flipped as he wondered what that’d look like, if his hair was longer--if it’d stay swept backward, the way his did. He pushed the idea away, focusing on the obvious shift in Nero’s mood, the way he looked at anywhere but Vergil and searched for his words. 

“What is it?”

Nero’s own tension was building within Vergil, too, and he started tapping the table to pass some of that nervous energy, never taking his gaze off his son. Nero leaned back, trying to appear casual and utterly failing.

“Well, I was talking to Kyrie yesterday. I talk with her every day, you know, usually around this time so it’s not too late for her.” 

Yes, he had mentioned that earlier. Vergil bit back an impatient comment. It was unlike Nero to circle around his point like this, which could mean it was something very important, and that was somehow related to him. Part of Vergil wanted to know _now_ , and the other half wished he could vanish before Nero broke whatever bad news was coming his way.

“She was telling me how much she could use a hand around the orphanage, and how hard it becomes when I’m away for so long, and she also said she’d worry a lot less about me if I had a partner on the most dangerous demon hunts, especially with the weird stuff going on, so…”

So… _what_? Vergil was just about to break. The tension initially curling at the bottom of his stomach had grown, crawling through his entire body until it felt like every muscle would snap. Nero’s words pounded in his mind, their meaning half-guessed but immediately refuted. It was ludicrous--a fool’s hope, tricking his heart, and yet…

“So she thinks it could be a good idea, if you came and lived with us for a while.”

“And you?”

Vergil thought his reply would be a choked mess of words, more emotion than sounds, yet instead his voice came out all smooth, laden with an indifference he didn’t remotely feel. Nero’s eyes narrowed at him and his calm returned.

“Can’t say no to the love of my life,” he replied. 

“Ah.” It had not answered his question, not truly, but pressing the issue would be giving it more weight, and he was already light-headed, thrown off his game by the warmth expanding his chest and the terrifying possibilities of the future Nero now offered to him. There were so many ways this could go wrong. “Am I to understand that I am invited to your dwellings in Fortuna? To live there?”

He didn’t say _with your family_ , kept those words close to his heart, where no one could take them to hurt him. 

“Yeah, asshole, that’s what I’m saying,” Nero replied. “But Kyrie’s no Dante, and if you live under our roof, you live by her rules.”

“Of course.”

From Nero’s previous tales, she did not sound difficult to oblige. Besides, her house was likely to be far cleaner than Dante’s messy office. He’d said he wasn’t going to leave soon, but this… If he went, he would have more time with Nero, could perhaps fill his father-related planner’s page with something substantial. He would also, Vergil realized, be far from Dante and back into completely unfamiliar territory. Could he do this again, find his way to a normal life, without his brother to steady him? Could he truly separate himself from Dante, especially with the threat looming over them?

Nero went on, either oblivious to the enormity of what he was asking, or unwilling to acknowledge it. “You’d be coming with Nico and the van, so you’d still have a whole week to find whatever you can on the demons here, and Fortuna has a lot of books on the subject too, if you know where to look, so--”

“I know where to look,” Vergil interjected. That was what had first drawn him, all those years ago. Surely, he’d thought, a whole cult dedicated to his father would have crucial information amidst their disillusioned ramblings.

“So you’re coming?” Despite obvious efforts, Nero failed to keep the hopeful excitement out of his voice. It struck a chord deep within Vergil, leaving him aching with longing. 

“I…” Vergil wanted to say yes. The desire vibrated deep within him, yet he found his mind already scrambling from an escape route, an excuse to refuse. Knots had formed in his stomach, sweat covered his palms, and his heart thudded in his chest. He knew the feeling, the _fear_ , exactly like when Dante had left him behind in Hell, intent on finding his way back whether Vergil followed or not. The prospect of accepting and failing terrified him. There was only one way for a Sparda to deal with this. 

He lifted his chin and met Nero’s gaze without smiling, refusing to diminish the importance of this decision with such levity. “I accept.”

“Y-you do?” 

Nero stared at him, open-mouthed, his disbelief a spike of fear through Vergil. Had he made a mistake? Was he overstepping? Had Nero hoped for him to refuse, providing a convenient excuse to dodge that particular wish of Kyrie? Perhaps he’d been counting on Vergil to cancel the entire idea. But he’d sounded so _excited_ a moment ago. Was Vergil that incapable of reading his own son?

“Unless I am imposing unduly upon you, of course, in which case I am content to stay on this side of the ocean.”

“No, that’s not--” Nero stopped himself and scowled, like he’d grabbed hold of whatever he was about to spill just in time to shut it down and bury it, and Vergil instantly recognized his own defense mechanisms. “Damn, but you’re annoying. It’s too late now, _father_. You said yes, and you’ll have to face the consequences.”

“What a shame,” Vergil replied, and despite his best efforts to remain stoic, to keep the façade right until the end, he felt his lips tug upward. Something in the way Nero had said ‘father’, like he intended to spat the word but couldn’t help the hope and warmth in his voice, like he, too, couldn’t entirely conceal how much it meant to him.

Nero snorted, and through a silent agreement, they left it at that, neither of them poking holes in the other’s fragile mask. Nero returned to his heavy burger, a thick montage of several meats dripping with sauce and cheese, so Vergil forced himself to do the same. He'd already managed to eat more than he'd expected, at least. The spinach-and-nut patty was tasty, and the whole burger was so different from anything he'd have imagined eating two decades ago. It helped, even if his body wanted nothing to do with this much food.

Eventually, Vergil broke the almost peaceful silence and asked about the prank's video, and Nero set his phone in the middle of the table to show him. It was eerie to watch himself on the screen, but Dante's face was well worth the awkwardness, as was Nero's pride at having captured the moment so perfectly.

As they sat there finishing their meal and discussing the highlights of the prank, the conversation steady and simple, it became easier for Vergil to imagine himself living with Nero, and being around him, without destroying everything. Perhaps those ‘consequences’ Nero had threatened with wouldn't be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fortuna it is ~
> 
> REBIRTH has three parts, and we're nearing the end of the first (one chapter left). Part 1 is Vergil finding his way back to a relationship with Dante, and settling enough to consider long term plans/mentally accept that this is real now, this is his life and he gets to define it.
> 
> The pacing is definitely going to change to some extent with Part 2, which is all about Fortuna and Vergil finding his rhythm into a more "normal" life while trying to figure out the demon thing (don't worry there's still a bunch of bullshit happening haha). And Part 3 is when I crash the party with the climax ^^;
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys the shift as much as I did. :) But either way, next week is still at the Devil May Cry, with some good Dante & Vergil. <3


	16. A Trade Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil tells Dante of his new plans and has a request for him.

Thunderous beats from the jukebox filled the _Devil May Cry_ as Dante rested on his trusty couch, hands behind his head, letting the joy of the music wash over him. He’d lunched on leftovers from Vergil’s olive-contaminated pizza from yesterday, not bothering to remove them as he devoured the cold slices, then promptly decided to do absolutely nothing for the day. He loved being able of doing this, of  _deciding_ he wouldn't do shit of his day, rather than crashing the couch for hours on end, too bored and apathetic to move, time flying beyond his notice. It still happened--he'd had a few pretty bad days about two weeks after their return, and it'd taken just about everything to mark it--but it wasn't as bad as before. It hadn't felt like he'd been falling in quite as deep, napping because there was nothing he really cared to do, not until a job came by and he could kill some demons--and even then, Morrison kinda had to drag his ass until he did the job. None of it had seemed like it mattered, with the rest of his family gone.

Today his brother was sharing dinner with his nephew, hopefully mending a relationship Vergil had managed to break several times over before it’d even started, and Dante just wanted to relax and enjoy the quiet peace in his mind. Even two months later, it was kind of hard to believe this was his life now, but all Dante needed to do for a reminder was open his eyes, and a shitton of blue decorations would assault them, proof enough that Vergil was not only alive but devoting his considerable drive to mocking Dante. What more could he ask for?

A wide grin spread across his face as he studied the banners and posters all over his place. This was just too perfect. Fake-Dante had, of course, already been relocated to rest on Vergil's bed, sprawled on his side upon it, one hand behind his head and a knee raised in a suggestive position, as if he was waiting for some sexy company. Vergil would hate it, but only if he saw it, and while Dante had noticed he'd started sleeping on the couch clutching their amulet, he wanted to keep track of the bed, too.

It was impossible not to worry. Not after Vergil had cried in his arms.

Fuck, had he ever seen Vergil cry from anything but childish frustration at losing? Even as a kid, he’d try to hold it all in until he thought he was alone and no one would see. He’d shattered an arm once, falling down a steep cliff, and not shed a single tear on their way home, barely conceding that he needed Dante’s help returning at all. Crying just wasn’t a thing Vergil did--it was an all too _human_ thing--and to have him as a grown-ass adult just break apart in his arms like that… Dante _hoped_ it was Mundus behind all this bullshit, just so he could kick his ass all the way into oblivion again.

When he’d first noticed something was off with Vergil again--beyond his usual aloofness, anyway--he hadn’t been that worried. He’d just given his bro space to work through it, the way he’d have wanted to be left the fuck alone, and shut down the voice in his head whispering Vergil might be using all that time to set up his next grab at demonic power or to look for an escape, away from him. But the signs of exhaustion kept getting worse, and he stopped coming home altogether, so when Trish asked if Vergil had said anything about Mundus to him… 

Dante had to try something, no? So he figured the best way to shake Vergil and get a rise out of him was to bring their parents into it. He just hadn’t thought he’d hit that hard, not in a million years, and now he was worried he’d broken something, that he'd gone too far and Vergil would shut him out for good. His blatant talk of leaving the office even as he overwhelmed in blue hadn't helped at all, either. 

Did he really want his own space, or was that just an excuse to escape? Was he really looking to build a life here, with them, or did he plan to vanish at the first opportunity? Dante might trust Vergil to tell him clearly whether or not he was up to more demon-power shenanigans, but like hell if he trusted him not to abandon everyone without a word the day piecing his life back together became too much. Better to disappear than to ask for help, after all. And if what broke him was Dante’s stunt with the amulet…

Dante huffed and pushed himself up. He wasn’t going to get that peaceful nap, not with his mind on Vergil like that. Workout outta help, even if there was nothing interesting to hunt out there. He studied his selection of Devil Arms for a moment, settled on King Cerberus and Lucifer, then threw his red coat on. As he passed by the desk, his eyes rested on their mother’s amulet, right at the corner where Vergil set it back every morning. After a moment of hesitation, Dante snapped it up and threw it around his neck. It had been years since he’d worn it, yet it settled against his chest like an old friend. Dante’s gaze slid to the portrait on his desk.

“I swear, mom, I’m doin’ my best out here. Woulda been easier if ya’d given me a twin that was less emotionally constipated, though.”

She offered no response. Her voice had been gone for decades now, ripped away, yet sometimes Dante caught himself thinking he’d hear it again. Ah, what a sentimental fool he was. Life would be easier if he cared as little as he let others think he did.

But enough of that. Dante shook himself, not unlike a big dog would, and strode out of the _Devil May Cry_ , into the bright sunlight and the promise of a great afternoon exerting himself.

****

###

****

He came back to Vergil waiting for him--very obviously so, standing in the middle of the room, one hand over the Yamato's pommel, blue eyes trying to drill hole into Dante. He'd probably heard the Cavaliere and gotten up, rather than stood there all freaking afternoon, but it didn't change much how eerie it was, to have him there like that, tense enough to set all his senses on alert. 

So of course Dante cracked a grin and gestured at the couch. “What's wrong, Vergil? Can't sit with the broom up your ass?”

Vergil, it seemed, was in no mood for mockery. His voice sliced through the office, clipped and cold, carrying the three words Dante had known were coming and hoped never to hear. “I'm leaving, Dante.”

“Like hell you are.” He almost growled back, his blood pumping, anger and bitter disappointment coursing through him. But he wouldn't let Vergil go without a fight. “Spardas don't flee. How many times must I wipe the floor with you before it sinks into you that doesn't just apply to fighting?” Dante could feel the Devil Sword at the edge of his mind, eager to be called upon.

Vergil scoffed. “You _never_ wipe the floor with me.” His chin rose, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he rose a hand, palm out, like that'd do anything to calm Dante. “You misunderstand.”

A sharp laugh escaped Dante. The amulet at his neck felt abnormally heavy, weighed by his impending failure to keep Vergil from drifting away again. Dante strode forward, his smile plastered on, and he did his best impression of Urizen. “Enlighten me, then, brother!”

Vergil met Dante’s gaze, fierce and proud, but instead of a snide answer, or a dodge, awe threaded his voice as he answered.

“Nero invited me to Fortuna. I’m leaving in a week, with Nico.”

The fight went out of Dante, a blast of air rushing out the moment pressure was released, washed away by a huge wave of relief. And mixed with it, a healthy dose of anger, because “Fuck, Vergil, couldn’t you have led with that?”

Vergil stiffened. “I did not expect such a strong reaction.”

Dante shoulda seen that one coming--Vergil was always shit at predicting emotional reactions. “You’re a dumbass.”

His brother still seemed puzzled, and after a brief moment of silence, he asked “Is this because of my comment the other day? As I said--”

“Damnit, Vergil, what you said sounded like exactly the kind of bullshit dodge you’d want to feed the world before vanishing into the night. And after what happened when we sparred--”

“Regardless,” Vergil cut off, a telltale blush creeping up his neck, and Dante laughed before he could add anything. Yep, this motherfucker was embarrassed as all hell, and now that the looming threat of him disappearing alone was gone, Dante sure wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. He needed revenge for that scare, anyway.

“What’s wrong, Vergil? A few tears to water the blessed earth never hurt anyone.” He stalked to his brother, throwing an arm over Vergil’s shoulder, grinning hard, and started in a sing-song voice, “Vergil and Dante, sitting in a clearing, C-R-Y-I-N-G.”

“Were you also--” Vergil shut down his own question, shaking his head, and shrugged out of Dante’s arm. “This was not the topic at hand, Dante. Must you ruin everything?”

He’d slipped right back into arrogant Vergil mode, the cover familiar and reassuring. Dante spread his arms out. “Isn’t that what little brothers are for?”

“Unfortunately.” 

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose as if even speaking with Dante gave him a terrible headache and for a time Dante simply basked in Vergil’s expression--that slight annoyance under which he buried his smiles, the way his body naturally refused to slouch where Dante’s did nothing but, the piercing blue eyes, sliding to him now, so damn unreadable all the time.

“Dante,” he said, and although he still said his name with that unique inflexion at the end, it carried something soft now, something like affection. “In light of these new developments, I have a favour to ask.”

“A favour?” Dante repeated, unable to keep the teasing out of his voice. “You?”

Vergil lifted his eyes to the sky, but a smile played on his lips--victory, as far as Dante was concerned. “I would like to take the amulet with me, or at the very least my half of it.”

Dante pulled the amulet out, then slowly removed it from around his neck. It would have been more prudent to split it back into halves years ago, but he could never bring himself to it. Not when Vergil's half felt like the only thing left from his brother. But that wasn't true anymore, and the amulet had always meant a lot to Vergil. He’d claimed it as his before falling into the demon world, and it was as much his inheritance as the Yamato. It wouldn't be right to keep it from him, even if it meant letting it travel all the way to Fortuna.

Damn, but it was hard to believe Vergil was going. A selfish part of Dante wanted to tell him to stay, to say they couldn't separate the Sons of Sparda again, to cheekily tell Vergil he'd been ‘his reason’ to live for too long to drop him like that. Which wasn’t all that false, anyway. He’d grown used to Vergil’s presence in the office--how he padded his way when he thought Dante was sleeping, the weird flow of notes he liked to listen to, the small scoffs whenever Dante flung himself into the chair, or ordered more pizza, or did anything else Vergil disapproved of. They’d annoyed each other over small things constantly, and if that wasn’t the best he could ask of life, Dante didn’t know what else. 

It wasn’t just Vergil being himself, though. It was watching him fall into mundane habits like closing Dante’s bedroom door, or the subtle ways he fretted and tensed whenever Nero was around, almost vibrating with the desire not to offend, or even how Lady and him snapped at each other endlessly. It was Vergil as part of his life _and_ Vergil building his own, like it should always have been, and like it would have if they’d been together that fateful day when demons killed their mother.

Dante flipped the amulet up, catching it as it fell. He grinned when he noticed Vergil’s slight twitch, as if he’d almost snapped it out of the air himself. It wouldn’t be fair to keep the amulet away from Vergil, but giving it back felt like returning in the past. They were together now, and Dante refused to look anywhere else but forward.

“Nah, I’m keeping your half,” he declared. 

Vergil scowled, his fingers tightening around the Yamato. “It’s _mine_ , Dante.”

“Instead,” Dante continued as if Vergil hadn’t said a single word, “I’ll trade you mine. A favor for a promise.”

Vergil’s gaze snapped to his. While both of them had held the other’s half at one point or another, they’d never willingly traded them. As children, they argued over which was better, and as adults, well…

“A trade,” he repeated, his voice haughty, as if the suggestion was a curiosity to examine. “Name your price, then.”

That was easy to choose. Whether Vergil would be up to the challenge, however, was another matter altogether. Dante set one hand on his hip and lifted the amulet with the other, placing it between them and keeping Vergil’s half against his palm. 

“Your trip to Fortuna. Don’t fuck it up,” he said. “Nero’s not me. Betray his trust again, and he’ll cut you out of his life.”

And he would have every right to, but Vergil already knew that. Dante could tell by the glint of fear in his eyes, the increase of tension in his shoulders, the way he treated everything regarding Nero as the highest stake battle. Which didn’t mean Vergil wasn’t liable to let his pride get in the way. 

Vergil clasped his hand over Dante’s, keeping the amulet between their palms. The cold fingers surprised him--it was a hot day out there, and his brother had his usual gloves on. Chin lifted and tone solemn, Vergil declared,  _“And we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love.”_

“Gonna take that as a yes, brother, whatever else you meant by it.”

He squeezed the hand, and Vergil squeezed back. Their gaze met, identical blue eyes, and while neither spoke another word, they both knew what came next. The amulet grew warm between their palms and Dante focused his mind on it, his shared connection to its power, the way its familiarity nestled against his heart. He inhaled deeply, felt Vergil do the same, and they pulled, in sync with one another. The perfect amulet split with a crystalline sound, and Dante brought his part closer to himself, smiling at the golden half. He knew he would find Vergil’s name etched behind. 

“You take care of it,” Vergil said, a warning in his voice as he slipped Dante’s silver half over his neck. “It belongs to a Son of Sparda, and I’m trusting you with it.”

“I promise I’ll hide it under a stack of empty pizza boxes,” Dante said.

Vergil rose his eyes to the sky, then turned away with a shake of his head. “You would.”

Silence fell between them again, heavy with the news of Vergil’s now-imminent departure. Dante didn’t have the fortitude to let it last, to let his mind drift to thoughts of the _Devil May Cry_ office empty again.

“So. A week, huh?”

“Plenty of time, don’t you think?” Vergil responded, looking over his shoulder. “We do have a score to settle.”

Dante snorted. “Only because you won’t admit I’m up one.”

Vergil’s shoulders shook, only briefly, but Dante knew that was from laughing, and he grinned even harder. He slipped his brother’s half of the amulet over his head, and this time, the weight on his chest felt natural, reassuring. “Wanna go now? I spent the whole afternoon training, and it was _boring_. It really ain’t the same doing this alone anymore.”

Vergil’s hand flew to the Yamato, almost like he wanted to draw it here and there to begin. That must have been a yes, Dante concluded, and he clapped his hands. “I bet Cavaliere’s still warm.” He whirled on his heels, a childish skip to his steps as he headed out. “Hop on in, Vergil, it’s time to fight.”

“Ah, brother,” Vergil said, his voice just a step behind, “it warms my heart to see you so eager for defeat.”

Dante laughed, already pumped for battle. He might only have one week left before Vergil left, but he was going to make the best of it, obligations be damned. If the world let him, there would be nothing but Vergil and him fighting for the whole next week, like they were back in Hell, just the two of them and their ever-changing scoreboards, the flow of their exchanges, in words and swords alike. All good things came to an end, and nothing could remove the quiet sadness at the prospect of Vergil leaving, even if only for a time, even if it was to follow Nero, but surely no one needed to know that, let alone dwell on it. 

Dante straddled Cavaliere, and a later moment the weight and warmth of Vergil’s body joined him, right behind. Something hard and warm dug in Dante’s back--his own half of the amulet, around Vergil’s neck--and the warmth spread to his chest. Nothing would separate them now, not an ocean, and certainly not three-eyed vomit-pile Mundus. 

He revved the motor up and set off, immediately tightening his knees on the motorcycle, throttling it up, and hitting the rear brakes. As the front wheel rose up, Vergil reflexively grabbed onto him with a small I’m-hiding-my-surprise-under-disdain scoff, and Dante burst out laughing. He sped down the street, confident that this time, no matter how much Vergil protested about them being even _now_ , he would end up one point above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART ONE!!!
> 
> We're about a third of the way through, everyone! Those of you who follow on twitter (WritingSquid) might have seen this, but I've finished Part Two's draft and outlined Part Three in more details, and by my current estimation, I will updating... until March 8, 2020. YEP. Somehow, this is the perfect length to finish on the game's anniversary and I am PUMPED about it. 
> 
> I put an actual chapter count on it, though it's likely to change a bit before the end (if it goes up, you'll have some weeks with double updates!).
> 
> Next week's chapter is sort of an interlude, and I am extremely excited to bring two new narrators into the fold (one who'll stay, one who just has this tiny section).


	17. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Vergil and Nico cross the Atlantic, Nero and Kyrie get his room ready for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is technically an in-between Part 1 and 2, and we get Nico and Kyrie narrating (Kyrie's meant to keep doing it, too!). These are two very short scenes, and it's honestly probably the last time I have a chapter that's only 2,000 words haha. They just kept growing in size after that.

****INTERLUDE 1 - ACROSS THE ATLANTIC**  
**

 

Grown ass men trying to cling to their pride over silly things beyond their control was one of Nico’s favourite genres, and boy did Vergil provide on this blessed day. He clung to the ship’s railing, staring out at the grey and rumbling sea, wind whipping at his three-tailed coat as if being all dignified would wash away the greenish tint in his skin or the way his entire face seemed just about ready to puke. 

Nico watched him, one finger hovering above the record button of her cellphone in case his stomach gave up before he did. Now wouldn’t that be perfect video to send to Nero and help him unwind a bit? The way Kyrie told it, the poor bloke was beside himself with worry--not that she’d revealed that so clearly, she was mindful of his poor pride for that. But Nico knew her lil’ bro, and she knew Kyrie, and when she read stuff like “Nero has been pondering the nature of his father’s reading taste” despite Nero not giving a shit about books, she knew what was up. Was kinda sweet, really. 

To her utter disappointment, Vergil seemed to be holding on to his breakfast all right. After a dozen minutes, Nico gave up her filming plans, stuck the phone back in her pocket, and approached him. 

“So, what’s the plan, V-man? Stare at the sea and pray you ain’t gonna throw up all over board before the trip’s done? ‘Cause we got a whole week to go, y’know, and by the looks of those clouds, we ain’t getting off without a storm.”

She pointed at the very dark clouds on the horizon, and Vergil grew paler when he saw them. He pinched his lips together. “I’m not sick.”

Nico snorted and leaned against the railing, her back to the sea, to give his totally-sick face a dubious look. “Sure, V-man. Suit yourself. But it’s just the two of us out here, and no one needs to know if you spent the whole trip curled up on your bed like a wimp.” It was probably best not to tell him she’d been considering filming him puking to send to Nero not twenty minutes ago. Friends had secrets, right?

Although he kept facing towards the clouds, Vergil’s gaze slid to her. “I’m fine.”

Of course he was. She rolled her eyes. “Boy, you Spardas are all the same, huh?”

“Is Nero… also seasick?”

“Nah, he’s just a prideful punk who won’t admit to feelings. Like his daddy.” 

She reached out to give him a little shove, but Vergil jerked out of the way with a scowl and--aw, damn, she kept forgetting he didn’t like to be touched. She was used to being all over people, and getting better at staying out of his space, but she still slipped a lot. 

“Sorry bud,” she said, dropping her hand. He acknowledged her with a slight nod and resumed his position. “Also, that question made no sense unless you’re seasick yourself.”

A pause, then Vergil’s telltale “Ah”, the ultimate sign he no longer knew what to say. Nico grinned, heady with the great joy of victory. He was usually a lot harder to corner, but his poor brain cells must all be working on that not-puking thing.

“Maybe you outta lie down in the van instead. Close your eyes and you just might be able to convince your brain all the heaving around is my excellent driving.”

Vergil frowned, but after a moment of consideration, he turned away from the sea. “I am willing to try.”

They were forced to break into the parking lot with the vehicles, but with Vergil’s demon magic, that turned out thrilling and easy. Nico slipped into the front seat while he settled on the couch, figuring it’d help with the illusion, and once he closed his eyes, she snapped a picture of him--he just looked too funny, on his back like that, his entire face smooth with concentration.

“So d’you wanna talk about anything?” she asked. “Or I can make tire-screechin’ noises with my mouth.”

A slight smile stretched briefly across Vergil’s lips. “Please do not.” He reached for something at his neck, below his shirt, and added, “I believe the position is helping. Perhaps you could… tell me about Kyrie?”

A burst of affection rushed through Nico. She could talk about Kyrie all day if Vergil wanted her to! “Yeah? Oh man, sure, of course!” Where to start, though? Where could one begin to encompass how amazing her girl Kyrie was? “She’s a saint, no--an angel. The one human truly gifted with beauty, and grace, and a little bit of everything, yeah? Nero’s one lucky motherfucker, let me tell you.”

“High compliments,” Vergil commented, and she wondered if she’d imagined the thread of anxiousness in his voice. Did Kyrie intimidate him? “Nero had similar thoughts, though I had assumed it was in part due to his infatuation.”

“Ah, well…” Nico cleared her throat, her head hot from embarrassment. “Nothing wrong with a wee crush on your lil’ bro’s girl, am I right?” Vergil frowned, and before he could edge a word in, she continued, “Don’t get your jimmies in a twist, V-man. We all know where we stand with this stuff, all right? Talked through it like adults, we did.”

And boy had it been one of the most awkward nights of her life, but by that point she’d been practically living at their place half the time, and she couldn’t go on hardcore crushing on Kyrie without airing it somehow. Nico was shit at keeping this stuff inside, and the longer she tried, the weirder it’d get for everyone involved. She still loved the girl, but now that it was out in the open, it didn’t feel like she badly needed to do something about it. Nero and Kyrie were already like a second family to her, anyway.

“I have no desire to be involved in such dynamics, including by commenting upon them,” Vergil eventually responded. “I am… glad, that Kyrie is such a good person.”

And definitely nervous, from the sound of it. “She’ll love you too, V-man. She loves everyone.”

“I said nothing about me,” Vergil said, an edge to his voice.

Nico laughed. Was his wounded pride acting up again? Poor Vergil probably didn’t want anyone thinking he was nervous about being appreciated when he was such a jerk half the time. “Ya didn’t need to.” 

She expected an argument, because anything else was like admitting she was right, and Nero would never let her get away with it. But Vergil did, which was unusual for him too, and she put that down to the seasickness. He _was_ still a lil’ green, even in the dim light. Dude probably had a lot on his mind--he’d done the silent thing a lot over the last weeks, listening to her just enough to nod when expected. No one had bothered to tell her what was up exactly, beyond more demonic danger, but she suspected Nero didn’t know the core of it either. But hey, old men got to have secrets too. Until they opened their big mouths and told her, she’d keep doing what she did best: run hers and distract them.

So while Vergil kept his eyes closed and his focus on not puking, she picked random topics and started blabbering--about guns, and her research, and the demon book he’d given her, and everything from future projects to her favourite William Blake line to the latest meme on the internet, which despite his good progress in all things modern life, Vergil had no hope of comprehending yet. It didn’t matter. Even with minimal comments, he was good company--much better than the week alone she’d anticipated--and Nico _loved_ talking. 

If Vergil was up for it, she could keep this up till they arrived in Fortuna, no problem.

 

****INTERLUDE 2 - VERGIL’S ROOM**  
**

 

On a day like this, it was easy to reflect upon the ways kindness and love required strength and courage. Nero flitted around Vergil’s room, tugging at the bedsheets so that they were perfectly smooth, replacing the books on the nightstand to set them at the right angle, touching everything to make it absolutely, perfectly right, with a care he had never exhibited elsewhere around the house.

He was nervous, Kyrie knew, and it was rather endearing. She watched him, her heart full of love even as her own worries continued to settle in.

It had been her idea to invite Vergil to Fortuna, but it was difficult not to worry about the man who'd torn off Nero’s arm, regardless of what else had happened since. It was difficult not to perceive the depths with which Nero cared and not brace for failure and bitter disappointment. But it was always better to have tried, and if this failed, well, she would be there for him, wouldn’t she? 

Kyrie entered the room proper just as Nero climbed on the bed to adjust the large blue banner he'd brought back from Dante’s office--one from the prank they’d played. Watching Vergil on the video had convinced her of her choice; he was smiling, relaxed, mischief in his eyes despite the stiff posture and constant alertness. She was glad these were the first real images of him she’d acquired--Nico had only managed to sneak pictures from strange angles before--as they made him more approachable, and less like the imagined monster who had thrown their lives into brutal and bloody chaos.

“Nero, love, I promise the banner is fine,” she said, stopping by the bed.

“He’ll notice if it’s not.”

“Then he’ll place it back himself. You undid the bedsheets again.”

Nero looked down at his feet and groaned. He hopped back down the bed with a sigh, and she caught his hand before he could reach for the sheets. “Let me. Go take a run around the neighbourhood before he gets here. It’ll do you good.”

He straightened back and turned to her, his smile soft and kind, so different from the half-smirk of defiance he threw at everyone else. This smile was hers only, and she stretched upward to kiss it briefly.

“You’re right,” Nero whispered, and he squeezed her shoulders before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “As usual. Thank you, Kyrie.”

His voice got rough when he thanked her, and she knew it wasn’t about the room and the advice, or not only. She acknowledged it with a nod, then motioned for him to hurry out. For a moment, it looked like Nero might steal another kiss, so she looked pointedly at the door and he left with a soft chuckle.

Kyrie smoothed out the bed again, then stepped back to contemplate their work. Bright afternoon light threw a golden glow over the room, and a warm breeze pushed at the thin curtains inward. The sheets colour matched the banner--a blessing, that, as she could not have afforded new ones--and the pale wooden furniture seemed to absorb the sunlight and shine. They’d kept it simple and sparse, but since Nero remembered Vergil mentioning music, she’d brought an old stereo up, along with part of her collection of classics from the chorals. 

She pulled one disc from the pile, a recording of herself, and blushed. It felt conceited, to make such an offer, but Nero had reminded her she was always singing around the house. Sooner or later, he would have heard, and Nero was convinced he would love it. But Nero was no reference; her voice was always lovely to him. Kyrie shook the thoughts away, replacing the disk. If Vergil didn’t appreciate her singing, he was welcome to keep the thought to himself. 

Kyrie cast one last look at the room and, satisfied, she left it behind. Vergil’s arrival was imminent, and she had her own routine to accomplish to soothe her nerves and prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why I wrote Nico with a crush on Kyrie, well, huh... look at the way she talks about her in the Before The Nightmare novel haha. It's adorable. I wanted it in the fic, but also no drama will be had there, I promise.
> 
> Oh, also, yeah it's about a week to cross the Atlantic by boat, according to some surface googling. Within this fic, you can assume the Yamato only works as a travel means if the veil between the human and demon world is particularly thin, which it definitely was when the Qliphoth was about to pierce through. 
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR VERGIL'S ARRIVAL. :D
> 
> Also, for a lot of Gen content. DMCGenWeek runs from July 28 - August 3, and in addition to my regular updates on Rebirth and Disaster Dad, I'll have something for (probably) every day! I'm already done with prompts from Sunday to Wednesday, so keep your eyes peeled! None of it is Rebirth-tied, but it'll be a lot of fun.


	18. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil finally arrives in Fortuna!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on canon divergences: I know their orphans are all named and all boys, but I kind of went ahead and changed everyone except Julio, since they were never more than a name on a page. So we got a few OCs running around the story now, technically? They're all introduced properly here.
> 
> Also!! KYRIE & VERGIL finally, it begins. <3

Nicoletta ruthlessly dumped him at Nero’s front door, refused to stay, and drove off into the distance. He could only conclude she had sensed his fears and latched onto his weakness like a good predator, leaving him to fend for himself. He couldn’t complain. She’d been stellar company through a week of absolutely humiliating seasickness, raiding the ship’s pharmacy for medication when he could barely stand anymore, and providing a bowl for him to vomit in when he could no longer hold back, despite his frequent reassurance he would need no such thing.

Perhaps it was for the best, that Nico had left him. He did not entirely trust her ability to keep these stories quiet, especially now that he had been on the ground for two hours and he no longer felt queasy. One could ask many things from Nicoletta, but discretion was not among the lot. 

Vergil readjusted the collar on his white shirt, smoothed the creases from the sleeves, then pulled down on the royal blue sleeveless vest set over it, hoping it all looked quite right despite his lack of mirror to double-check. He’d left the three-tailed coat and gloves in his suitcase, in part because of the lingering smell, and in part because it felt wrong to enter this house wearing what he’d had hidden under a cloak, on his first visit, when he had summarily ripped Nero’s arm away and disappeared into a portal. As much as that Vergil was an indelible part of him, he wished a different path for himself now, a different life.

The Yamato, however, was still by his side. It deserved better than a suitcase.

With a deep breath, Vergil raised his fist and rapped his knuckles on the door. His stomach had returned to a most queasy state, but he immediately steeled himself, allowing none of it to show. And just in time, too--he’d barely finished knocking that Nero was already throwing the door open.

“You’re here.”

Nero might’ve sounded casual, but it occurred to Vergil that judging by the speed with which he’d opened, he had been right on the other side of the door. They must have heard the van and come down, only to wait for him to gather his courage and knock. Vergil fought the blush creeping up his neck.

“I am,” he said, thankful for the steadiness of his voice. 

They stood in awkward silence, Vergil fighting against the urge to jitter while he waited for an invitation to come in, Nero detailing him from head to toe, as if judging his worthiness. Perhaps he ought to have kept the coat; he’d hardly parted with it while living with Dante, and the familiarity might have been reassuring.

“Nero, is that him?”

The voice drifted from inside, crystalline and warm all at once, and he knew instantly it must belong to Kyrie. 

“Y-yeah!” Nero called over his shoulder.

“Then perhaps you should offer to take his bag? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Right.”

Nero didn’t offer to take his bags: two blue arms shimmered into existence, one grabbing the bag slung over his shoulder while the other snapped up the suitcase. He motioned for Vergil to follow in, so Vergil slipped into the house’s shadows without a word, glad to escape Fortuna’s beating sun.

Nero’s home was cozy, an old building given new breath through fresh paint and careful decoration. The gnarly wood cracked under his feet as they headed up a narrow flight of stairs, and Vergil absorbed everything he could: the skylight above spilling golden warmth upon their head, the three small frames with dried flowers along the climb, and the soft notes drifting up from below, their tune gentle. It was a strange sensation to feel a foreign house wrap itself around him in unspoken welcome. The _Devil May Cry_ had felt like a home of sort because it had felt like Dante, a familiar mess that mocked Vergil’s usual priorities. Nero’s house struck a different chord in him: it was an offering, unexpected and unknown. Vergil ran his fingers along the ramp almost with reverence.

Ahead, Nero dumped the suitcase heavily, startling Vergil out of his mood. He hurried up the last few steps, catching up with his son, and found him standing before a closed door. 

“That’s your room,” he said. “The kids know the upstairs is our space, so they only come here if there’s an emergency. They won’t bother you unless you come down, but once you do, you’re free game.”

“Is it intentional, to make it sound as if they are a pack of hunters, and I, the prey?”

A short burst of laughter escaped Nero. “Some days that’s just how it feels,” he replied, mischief in his eyes. “They’re sweet kids, just a bit rowdy.”

Not unlike their caretaker, then. Vergil nodded in understanding, then Nero turned his doorknob and pushed the door to his new room open, stepping aside to let him in.

The first thing Vergil spotted was the banner above his bed, and as he recognized its origin, he couldn’t refrained from a small, amused ‘ah’. He half-glided in, taking in the decor, then closed his eyes and let the warm breeze drift against him, let himself inhale the scent of clean sheets and potpourri, the feel of old-stone dust on the wind, of quietness and history.

“You like it?” Nero asked.

Vergil turned to answer, but the sound of soft steps in the stairs caught his attention first, and he withheld his answer. A woman appeared at Nero’s side, short auburn hair shining almost red in the afternoon light, a splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She smiled, briefly squeezed Nero’s fingers, then stepped past him to offer her hand. 

“Mister Vergil?” she asked. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It was both so formal and so sincere, she caught him off guard. “Kyrie, I imagine?” Behind her, Nero scowled at him, silently daring Vergil to be impolite for a second longer. He cleared his throat and accepted the offered hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

“We usually have dinner at seven. Until then, feel free to make yourself at home.” She gestured briefly to the suitcase, then added, “Nico said you might be exhausted from your trip, so we’ll leave you to it. If you need a shower, it’s down the hall and to your right.”

Vergil imagined fresh water running across his skin, washing away a week of sickness and filth, and he smiled. “That sounds splendid. Thank you… for having me here.”

Perhaps it was fatigue from their travels, but the homeliness of Nero’s house was almost overwhelming, leaving him off-balance, uncertain of where he stood and what he could say, as if the slightest mistake would shatter the ambient peacefulness. His hand reflexively went to the Yamato, thumb running over the relief of the grip, and some of his mounting anxiety softened. 

Kyrie caught the movement and her smile diminished. When her gaze caught his, there was thunder in hazelnut eyes and it jolted through him like a warning. Her voice remained soft and kind, yet Vergil knew better than to take her lightly. 

“I know Mr. Dante keeps Devil Arms on his walls like trophies, but I’m sure you’ll understand we have children here, and weapons are not allowed downstairs unless you go straight to the garage or outside with them. As such, the Yamato…” 

She paused and eyed it, and the weight of what Vergil had done to recover it hung heavy in the room. Nero set a gentle hand on her back, caressing it, and Vergil steeled himself against the urge to look away. It had been _necessary_. 

“It will stay upstairs,” he promised through gritted teeth. “You have my word.”

Kyrie beamed at him then, as if there had been no tension a moment ago, and she hooked her arm within Nero’s. “Welcome to Fortuna, Mr. Vergil. Let us know if you need anything else.”

And they departed, Kyrie half dragging Nero along. He whispered something to her and kissed the side of her head as they vanished down the stairs. Kyrie’s clear laugh drifted to him, and he wondered what was funny, if he’d said anything wrong, if he should feel insulted… Vergil forced the thoughts away. He had never been the kind to analyze every word of past conversations to find mistakes to regret, and he refused to start now. 

Vergil’s gaze found the clock by his bed, round and old-fashioned, with the bells on top. He still had two hours before dinner--plenty of time to get settled in. He reached for the Yamato and slowly unfastened it, removing the trusted scabbard from his hip and setting the sword down on his dresser. His heart squeezed when he released it, knowing it wasn’t temporary, that he would spend most of his time within Fortuna without it by his side, that he likely no longer _needed_ to keep it close. 

Except, his mind provided, that Mundus might be lurking, tracking him down even now, somehow pushing demon souls into the human world, into human objects. It didn’t matter how safe and homey Nero’s home felt, it could happen here too. It could always happen anywhere.

Vergil almost snapped the katana back up, to bring it with him in defiance of Kyrie’s rule, but Nero had been clear about following those, and they were both quite capable of fighting even without their weapons of choice at hand. His throat tight, he stepped away from the Yamato and the security it offered, and turned his attention to the suitcases. He’d have time to dig into research later. Right now, the shower was waiting for him.

****

###

****

Nero whisked the crepes' batter with his demon arms while he sliced through the onions. The kids were playing outside, and their happy cries drifted through the open window as they kicked a ball around, trying to steal it from each other--a bit of an unfair game to Ticho, the youngest of them, whose short legs weren't up to the challenge, but they all loved it anyway. Kyrie handled the oven, preparing the bechamel and watching over the asparagi, humming one of her many choral songs. Nothing quite felt like home as hearing her sing while they cooked, and he briefly closed his eyes, letting the sound sink into him.

His knife sliced through his finger instead of the onion, and he snatched it back with a grunt at the quick jab of pain, sucking at the thin wound. It’d heal--not as fast as Dante’s wounds, but faster than regular humans, for sure--but he still mentally scolded himself for the inattention. He’d forgotten how fucking smitten he was with Kyrie, and even a week home hadn’t totally dissipated that cloud yet. Nero looked over his shoulder, at the beautiful woman swinging her body in a slow rhythm as she whisked the bechamel, and he smiled, the sting in his finger forgotten.

As if she’d sensed his gaze, Kyrie looked over her shoulder and smiled back. “That went okay, don’t you think?”

Nero frowned and set down the crepes’s batter. By now he’d long since removed any of the chunks of flour in it. “I don’t know. He was weird.”

“Was he?” Kyrie slowed down her whisk, tilting her head to the side. “He seemed… surprisingly ordinary.”

“Yeah, right?” Nero returned his attention to the onion with a sharp laugh. “That’s what’s weird. Back at Dante’s, he moved like he owned the world and we all outta bow down to him. So what’s he doing acting all shy or some shit? I don’t like it.”

Kyrie laughed, her voice sweet and loving, devoid of an ounce of mockery. She gave the bechamel a quick spin before leaving it behind to wrap her arms around his waist. Her lips neared his ears, and he shivered as he imagined them kissing his neck, right under the lobes, but Kyrie only whispered, “I may be wrong, Nero, but I believe you sufficiently impressed on him that he was a guest, and he might just _care_ about his continuous welcome here.”

Nero huffed, because he knew she was right--he wouldn’t have invited Vergil to Fortuna if he hadn’t thought there was a chance, under all his scoffs and haughty glares, that the man meant to make this work. He just didn’t know how to handle Vergil trying so damn hard! 

“It’s easier when I have to kick his ass into submission first,” Nero muttered. 

Kyrie squeezed him briefly. “And I prefer when there’s no violence involved.”

She glided back to the stove, taking up her work where she’d left it, and he finished cutting the onions, then the mushrooms, and finally the ham in long strings. He tensed as steps echoed above his head, and the sound of water running through the pipes partly buried Kyrie’s singing. In the shower, then. As he’d said. It really shouldn’t be this awkward, but Nero couldn’t stop himself from track Vergil’s movements, and wondering what the man was thinking, and if this could even remotely work. They were preparing _a family dinner_ , and the kids were absolutely thrilled to have a new friend. If any of it went wrong, it was his home it’d affect, and now that Vergil was right above his head, showering like it was no big deal, Nero didn’t know that he was ready to introduce him into his private life.

Nero set down the knife with a deep breath. He needed to get out of the house before he tried to subconsciously pick on every single thing Vergil did above and overanalyze them. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Kyrie… Will you be all right, if I go outside to check on the kids?”

She studied him for a moment, brown eyes reading him more easily than any music sheet, then offered a supportive smile. “Of course, but come in a few minutes early so you can all set the table, will you?”

“You got it.”

Kyrie always knew when to leave him his excuses and when to call him out on his bullshit, and he loved her for it. He placed everything he’d cut in a bowl and set it within easy reach of her, pressed a kiss to her cheek, then slipped out of the kitchen and into the bright late-afternoon and the orphanage’s inner court.

The little green space could barely be called that, really--it was like a small, open room with a single big tree, a swing, and a dozen feet of length to run around--but since the two other residences around it had been smashed into rubble during the demon invasion, the whole area was theirs, and fairly hidden from view. It was perfect for any demonic shenanigans with the kids, and perfect to hide from the occasional occult journalists looking to pry into Fortuna’s invasion.

Sometimes Nero still couldn’t believe they’d manage to buy this place. He didn’t like to think of where the money had come from, of how Credo had planned for Kyrie and him even in death. That just made the guilt worse, and at first Nero hadn’t wanted to use the money at all. The ensuing argument between Kyrie and him was part of the reason he hated to think of it: he’d been an ass, wrapped up in guilt and grief, and she’d been right to say ignoring the money was dishonouring her brother’s memory and will. But they’d moved past that, and Nero had to admit, everything about this place was perfect: the court, the tiny second floor for them, the many small rooms for the kids to sleep in, the wide kitchen in which they spent so much time, and the large garage, once for all residences, in which Nico could easily park the _Devil May Cry_ van. Credo had blessed them, and even though paying for the house had eaten up all their newfound savings, they were making the best of it, for his sake and that of everyone else Nero had failed to save.

He had about two seconds of freedom before the kids spotted him and happy cries of “Nero!” filled the courtyard. Julio was the first to come running, dark curls flying ever longer behind him, and despite being almost seven now, he jumped into Nero's arms like he was still four. Nero smirked, knowing exactly what he wanted, and materialized his demon arms to catch him and throw him upwards. Amelia arrived next, pale skin tanned by the sun and ball in hand, and he ruffled her short hair and squeezed her shoulder while Julio started falling back downward.

“Good day?” Nero asked her, extending his arms up to catch Julio.

She nodded, curt and solemn--Amelia had always been the more serious one--then put her ball on the ground. “Even Julio can't take it away from me now.”

“Soon no one in Fortuna will.” He caught Julio, and the shock still spread down to his knees. This kid really had gained a lot of muscle mass over the last year.

“You can,” Amelia pointed out. “But that's okay.”

Nero smiled at her, then scanned the courtyard for his missing kid. “Hey, where's my lil’ Ticho? You playing hide and seek, buddy?”

A small head peeked from behind a tree, then quickly dodged back. Nero set Julio--who was laughing and squirming in the demon arms--down, then slowly stalked forward, as if he still hadn't spotted his youngest charge. He searched through Kyrie’s plants, wondering aloud about Ticho’s location but ever-nearing the tree. More than once, Julio and Amelia giggled, and Nero knew Ticho was peeking while he could. When he reached the large trunk, he leaned against it and heaved out an exaggerated sigh.

“Well, maybe we’ll never find him!” he exclaimed, and a soft gasp echoed from behind the tree. It was all Nero could do not to burst out laughing as he jumped around the tree, swooped Ticho up with a great “Ha-ah!” then set all four arms to work on the traditional tickling punishment. When Ticho begged him to stop, he set the kid on his shoulders and wrapped blue wings around him. Despite his best efforts to forget Vergil, his gaze went to the window upstairs, curtains still closed, behind which his room would be.

“Is he here?” Amelia asked.

“Yeah.”

Julio’s eyes went wide. “Is he really your father? Can we see him? Does he have wings like you? I bet you got that from him!”

Nero’s heart tightened and he struggled to keep his smile on. Had he inherited anything from Vergil at all beyond the blue sheen of their respective powers and the obvious physical traits? Dante said they were both stubborn motherfuckers, but Nero couldn't think of anything else. “No, those are mine alone.”

Amelia crossed her arms. “Then he’s nowhere near as cool,” she declared firmly, and she glared at Julio, as if challenging him to say otherwise.

Ticho leaned forward, half-flopping on Nero’s head. “Is he nice?”

“He’s…” Nero gazed at the window, searching for an appropriate word. He didn’t want to outright lie to them, but telling these kids to expect an asshole wasn’t a stellar plan either. “Shy, I guess.” What a joke. Too late to take it back, though. “But hey, you can ask him all those questions over dinner later, and if he’s ever mean to any of you, you let Kyrie and I know, all right? For now, we still have some time to play before we have to go set the table.”

Amelia dropped the ball to the ground. “Then let’s play,” she declared, and Nero was glad she had as little interest in discussing Vergil as he did. He’d come outside for a distraction, but he should’ve expected the kids to be brimming with curiosity. They rarely allowed strangers in the house, and in their mind, Nero had had no parents, just like them. Vergil’s presence changed more than just his world; it changed theirs, too, and they would have to be careful with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the family dinner. How did Dante put that already? This one's gonna be a doozy ~


	19. Family Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil’s first lesson that night was that Kyrie was as dangerous with words and kindness as he was with a blade, and he should be thankful she was relentlessly using hers to make him feel welcome. His second was that nothing, not even Kyrie, could protect him from the children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Vergil to meet the children!! Nothing like a calm family dinner amiright?

Kyrie had just set the rolled up and stuffed crepes in the oven when Vergil made his way downstairs, surprising her by the earliness. Whatever bug of shyness had infected him earlier was gone, now, and she got a sense of what Nero had meant by “walked like he owned the world” in his confident strides, straight shoulders, and the calculating gaze he swept around the kitchen. She supposed it was good news, since it meant he’d had time to recover from his travels and set himself straight, but she couldn’t help her hint of disappointment. When he’d arrived, he could almost have been mistaken for a scholar, with his little vest, secondhand suitcase, and the frumpled look of one who’d lacked proper rest and found himself dealing with too many unfamiliarities. It had made him approachable. 

Now every single hair was perfectly placed, he’d found a way to smooth out most creases in his shirt, and even without the Yamato at his hip, Kyrie could sense the threat from him in the efficiency of every movement and the tension in his body, like he was ready to spring upon anything. Nero got like that, too, when he returned from a difficult hunt--alert, aggressive, stressed. It was more subtle in Vergil, but it felt more permanent, too.

“Mr. Vergil,” she greeted. “You’re early. Nero and the children are still playing outside.”

“Yes.” He clasped his hands behind his back, and added, “I could hear them.”

“I hope the sounds did not bother you,” she said mildly. 

The polite thing to do would have been to deny it, yet Vergil’s response was instead a long silence. Right. Nero _had_ mentioned he tended to lapse into silence at the most annoying times, and this would absolutely infuriate him. She couldn’t help but smile even brighter. 

“Well then, since I have finished preparations for dinner and the house is empty, perhaps I could finish showing you around?” She reached back and untied her apron, setting it down on an empty corner of the counter. “It’s not very big, all things considered.”

“Very well.” He inclined his head in assent and stepped forward, ready to fall in step behind her. “I admit, I would appreciate knowing what is expected of me in this household and how to best accomplish these tasks without impeding your usual routines.”

Kyrie stopped as she passed him, turning to examine him with a slight frown. He sounded so… business-like. They had invited him so that Nero could get to know his father, not so he could act as an underling. Everyone would have a terrible time during his stay with such an attitude. This needed to change. She studied him, assessing what she knew of him and what she’d surmised through their brief exchange to best angle of attack.

“Nero says you’re too proud, but that sounded like something a servant would say.” Surprise flitted through his expression, quickly buried under a scowl, but she pressed on. “You’re a guest. Nothing is ‘expected’ of you beyond what you see fit to do and no one will force you if you instead wish to spend your days locked into your room.”

Vergil scoffed and raised his chin. “Doing so would reflect on me. Those were not the terms I'd agreed with, and I will not recant on my word.”

Kyrie smiled brightly at him, and his scowl softened. She could feel the stiffness and tension in him mellow out, even though he fought to keep his posture. Good. Now that he’d offered more clearly to participate in household tasks, it was time to spring her trap. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Vergil. Any help will be appreciated, I assure you, but don’t let it trouble you tonight; I’d like to think I’m not such a bad host as to have you worry about chores a few hours after you arrived.”

“I--” Vergil held back whatever protest he was about to offer and met her gaze. She held her smile as he stared hard, eyes as blue as Nero’s searching her, perhaps trying to ferret out hypocrisy or deception. After a moment, he tilted his head forward, almost in deference. “It seems I have no choice but to put it out of my mind, then. Everyone told me of your kindness, miss, but they all failed to warn me of the craftiness underlying it.”

“Oh! I…” 

The compliment had caught her completely off guard, and a deep flush rushed the Kyrie’s cheeks. She knew her freckles would be flaring beacon under it, so she hurried past Vergil before it became too obvious he’d flustered her. No one warned _her_ he’d catch her red-handed while she trapped him into either giving insult to her as a host or accepting to rest, and even less than he’d actually appreciate the maneuver. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed to say. “Let’s get on with this visit before dinner, shall we?”

She thought she heard him chuckle, but the sound was so soft and discreet, it could’ve been anything. How strange. She was so used to Nero’s openness, to easy laugh, quick anger, and effusive displays of emotions, she might need a moment to readjust to Vergil’s much more contained personality. Nothing impossible there--in a way, Credo had been much the same, keeping so much inside, hidden under rigid discipline.

Kyrie put the thought out of her mind, batting away the sadness hidden there for now, and began the short tour of their house--Vergil’s new home, for the time being. She kept the conversation away from heavier topics when she showed him how to reach the garage, despair the way her stomach tightened. It was difficult to forget what he’d done there, or how deeply it had impacted Nero and her since, but she was determined to overlook the lingering fear for Nero’s sake. When she had pushed Nero to invite his father over, she had chosen to put her faith in both of them and the yearning embedded in Nero’s voice, over the phone. So far, Vergil had given her little reasons to regret the decision, and she could only trust time would continue to prove her right.

****

###

****

Vergil’s first lesson that night was that Kyrie was as dangerous with words and kindness as he was with a blade, and he should be thankful she was relentlessly using hers to make him feel welcome. His second was that nothing, not even Kyrie, could protect him from the children.

It started as they walked back into the dining room to find Nero directing the three foster children as they set the table, with a loud “It's him!” and a six-year-old dashing across the room, butter knives in hand, to launch himself at Vergil. Absorbed as he'd been in listening to Kyrie's instructions about the washing machine, Vergil caught the movement at the last moment. Fear and power spiked through him as his reflexes kicked in, and he grabbed the wrist tight, using his adversary's speed against him. His mind snapped back to reality a split moment later--fast enough to slow the spin and catch the child before they'd gone almost a full circle and he would've slammed into a wall. Vergil set him down, releasing his wrist, took a hurried stride back, out of the child's space, and froze there. He could feel Nero's glare upon his neck.

The child, by comparison, stared with wide eyes and a large grin. He let out a soft “Woah, _cool_.” even as he held his tiny wrist, tanned skin reddened by Vergil's brutal grip.

Kyrie's voice snapped through the air, the scolding in it clear as day. “Julio, what’s the rule about touching strangers?”

Julio cast his eyes down and mumbled, “Not without their consent.”

“And did you ask Mr. Vergil before rushing in?” she asked, more softly.

“N-no.” He looked up, big brown eyes full of wonder, not even remotely afraid. “I'm sorry.”

And then everyone was looking at Vergil, waiting for his reaction, and his earlier panic returned, less immediate but no less deep. He had no experience with children, unless one counted Dante, and he doubted decades of trying to kill each other brought any transferable skills to the current situation. He risked a glance at Kyrie, hoping for help, but she only rose her eyebrows. Fair enough. She had already done a fair bit of the work on his behalf.

He hesitantly lowered two fingers on the child's shoulder. “It's… quite all right. But I do prefer when no one touches me.”

He caught Kyrie's slight nod in the corner of his eyes and relief flooded through him… until he turned around and faced Nero's unrelenting glare. No one else would've perceived just how close he'd come to slamming a six-year-old into a wall hard enough to break bones, yet even knowing that--knowing he deserved that glare--he couldn't help but scowl back. These reflexes had saved his life more times than he could count, and he refused to be ashamed of them.

“Yeah, best not do that again,” Nero said, and every adult in the room knew he wasn’t addressing Julio. Vergil held his gaze, unflinching, until the younger man moved on with the conversation. “Let’s finish setting the table and share a nice, relaxing dinner, huh?”

“I’ll get the crepes,” Kyrie agreed, and as she slipped out of the room, everyone seemed to fall back into their routine. 

Vergil stayed in the doorway as Julio placed his small butter knives on the numerous seats, constantly looking over his shoulder to sneak glances at Vergil. An older girl had placed glasses and plates, pointedly _not_ gazing in his direction or acknowledging his existence in any way. Meanwhile, Nero installed a young boy--Ticho was his name, it seemed--on a higher seat, before whispering something to him and ruffling his hair. Something squeezed Vergil’s heart at the sight, sending a thick ball up his throat. No one had been there to run a hand through Nero’s hair at that age. He had been gone, lost to Mundus already, unaware that somewhere in the human world, his son grew up alone, in an orphanage.

Kyrie swept in with a reddish oven dish filled with rolled up crepes, all of which were buried under a generous portion of bechamel and a layer of grilled cheese. The delicious aroma pushed his wistfulness away, and he took a hesitant step towards the table before realizing he had no idea which seat was supposed to be his. Julio and the girl had taken one side, opposite of Ticho, and Nero had plopped down at one end of the table, on one side of the youngest boy. Kyrie started serving portions, and when she caught his hesitation, she gestured for the seat at the other end, directly in front of Nero.

“Go right ahead, Mr. Vergil. I’ll take the one on your left, next to Ticho. It’s closer to the kitchens.”

He acquiesced in silence and slipped into the chair, all too aware of everyone's gaze trailing him. Only Kyrie seemed not to bother, focused as she was on taking empty plates and returning them full. Julio planted a fork into his as soon as he received it, only to be softly scolded by the girl next to him for not waiting on others. Bereft of food to occupy his attention, the turbulent child turned to Vergil again--this one, it seemed, was determined to ruin any chance at a smooth evening Vergil might have had.

“Nero said you didn't have cool wings like his,” he declared. “Do you have _any_ cool powers?”

Vergil glanced at Nero, who let his wings shimmer into existence and briefly snapped them with a smirk--a challenge for him to come up with better. Vergil only frowned. He hadn't expected children to be aware of their demonic heritage, especially to such an extent. “I… summon swords?”

Both Julio and Ticho let out a long _oooooh_ , and the youngest clapped his hands. “Show us! Show us!”

Vergil bristled. “These aren't toys--”

“And there will be no weapons at the table,” Kyrie added, cutting him off before he tried to impress upon them the significance of demonic powers. They pouted and mumbled, but as Kyrie set down the last plate, their disappointment vanished. 

They dug into the food, and for a time Vergil enjoyed the blessed silence. He focused on his plate, on the perfect mix of onions, ham, and asparagi, on how his stomach didn't quease in protest of the sea anymore. He wasn't hungry, exactly, but it was good to be eating without feeling outright sick. The sea voyage had done a terrible number on him.

The children, however, did not care much for his peace, and it didn't take long before they sought to satisfy their curiosity again. Julio led the string of questions, bombarding him with everything going through his head, but at least they were easier this time. He asked about his favourite colour (blue, of course), his favourite food (hard to say after spending decades not-eating, but the sushi he’d shared with Nico were great, and Julio’s grimace at his answer was amusing), if his hair had always been white like Nero's or if that was old age (he wasn’t _that_ old), and if he liked school (that was harder; Vergil had no idea what actual school was like). It grated on him, to be questioned and examined like a witness at the stand, with Nero and Kyrie standing jury to his answers, but he squashed his irritation down, even if his answers remained short and elusive.

He was beginning to believe he would get through this ordeal with his pride battered but safe and no more major incident when Ticho--young, discreet Ticho, silent as he ate, listening but not speaking--went straight for his throat.

“Can you tell us about Nero’s mom?” he asked, his voice pure innocence, his words pure violence.

Vergil froze, words catching in his throat as Nero’s fork clattered into his plate. Heavy silence blanketed the table, covered only by the frantic thump of Vergil’s heart. He considered pinching time down to a freeze, grabbing the Yamato upstairs, and vanishing from this table and household forever--anything, really, to avoid Nero’s piercing blue eyes and all the hope and fear and anger that lived within them. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he could feel the amulet’s cold chain against his neck, almost as if Dante himself had reached across the ocean to slap the back of his head and remind him of his promise. Vergil steeled himself through one measured breath and only replied once certain his voice would remain steady.

“I can tell Nero,” he said. “He’ll decide what he wants to share.”

If Nero could have drilled a hole through him with his eyes, he would have. Great. Vergil had only been there for a few hours and he’d already repeatedly shattered the common ground he’d managed to find with Nero two weeks ago. This was going fantastic.

Softly, because she _was_ a saint, and quickly becoming Vergil’s favourite person in this household, Kyrie said, “Ticho, you know we don’t ask about the others’ parents here.”

“That’s for children,” Ticho protested. “Nero’s not a child.”

“He certainly is mine.” The words shot out of Vergil before he could consider them or their impact, and be wise enough to keep them to himself. And they were true, curse it all, but they earned him a wave of cold hostility, and the girl--so far blessedly silent despite her obvious dislike of him--finally broke.

“Then why did you leave him?” She slammed her fork down. “Parents don’t get to come back like this. It isn’t fair!”

Her chair rattled as she pushed it back, and Kyrie stood after her, and both girls were long gone by the time Vergil managed to push an answer past the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t… leave him,” he whispered. 

He liked to think he wouldn’t have, had he known before summoning the Temen-ni-gru, but it was difficult to tell. He had been young and bitter and prideful, even moreso than now, and he might have gone after Sparda’s power anyway, seen it as additional protection for the family thrust upon him. Did it matter at all, what he would have done then? He hadn’t been there, his intentions be damned. Vergil briefly touched the amulet at his neck, then set his own fork down.

“Perhaps it’s best if I retire for the night.”

“No.” Nero’s response snapped through the air, leaving no room for arguing. Unlike Vergil’s smooth tone, each of his word burned with barely-contained feelings. “Kyrie and Amelia will be back, and we’ll finish dinner, and you will stay through _all_ of it.”

There was challenge in his eyes, and under it, covered as best as he could, a plea. Vergil swallowed hard and acquiesced with a nod, even though he wanted to vanish through the floor. But he’d suffered through worse, hadn’t he? These were only children, and _his son_ wanted him to stay and endure, so he would. He picked up his fork and knife, and cut himself a slice of the crepe, and cast around for a topic, any topic, to push the conversation back to a semblance of normal.

“Perhaps Julio could tell me all about _his_ favourite food, since he had such strong opinions on mine,” he suggested.

And that, miraculously, worked. Julio clearly loved to talk, and he was very passionate about _pizza_ , of all cursed things to follow Vergil across the ocean, but at least Vergil’s obvious flinch at the answer made Nero smirk. Kyrie and Amelia did return, and while the girl’s eyes were puffed up from crying, everyone acted like nothing had happened. Nero explained his plan to go around Fortuna’s perimeter and demon hot spots with Nico and the van to make sure nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and Kyrie pointed out they needed to buy school supplies for Amelia and Julio in the next two weeks.

From there, the discussion turned to ludicrously mundane matters--groceries and sales and other domestic chores to take care of--all of which Dante had so thoroughly eschewed that even more than a month after their return to the human world, Vergil struggled to integrate those as part of his life now. He would have to, as he suspected they formed a large part of what Nero had meant by “help with the orphanage”. No matter. He did not mind menial tasks, as long as he retained sufficient time to investigate Fortuna’s more arcane books and begin his own mundane studies.

By the time everyone’s plate was empty, Vergil had regained most of his composure and he was looking forward to the rest of his evening alone in his rooms, browsing through the books they had thoughtfully left for him. Then Nero promised Kyrie “they” would handle the dishes, and Vergil knew his time in family purgatory was far from over. 

****

###

****

Nero didn’t know why he’d expected anything but a disaster from that first dinner, but even if he’d prepared himself for a bad time, he was pretty certain Vergil would’ve exceeded all his expectations. He dropped his pile of plates by the sink on the counter and stopped there, alone for the first time since Vergil had knocked on his front door, to breathe and let his anger cool down. 

It wasn’t _all_ Vergil’s fault. The kids weren’t usually this rough on guests, when they had them, and he and Kyrie hadn’t anticipated their reaction. Maybe they should have. Maybe he would’ve seen it coming, if he’d been less caught up in his own fears and had paid more attention to them. Maybe, maybe, _maybe_ , but it was too late for that, and now he needed to get some things through Vergil’s thick skull before it was too late. 

Vergil’s footsteps were heavier than anyone else’s in the household, but even as they neared him, Nero didn’t turn around. He just… he never knew where to start with this fucker, and so much had happened in the brief hour during which they’d shared dinner! Vergil stopped a few feet behind, empty glasses clinking in his hands. 

“Nero…”

Maybe one day hearing Vergil say his name with a softness half strangled by pride wouldn’t send Nero’s heart flip-flopping with want and anger, but today sure wasn’t it. He whirled around, and his glare was enough to stop anything else Vergil might have said. Which, fuck, left him to do the talking. Best start with what mattered the most, then.

“You touch one hair on these kids, and I won’t give two flying fucks about your reasons, I’ll kick your ass right back into Hell. Is that clear?”

Vergil’s chin lifted, and for a moment Nero expected an argument out of him, but instead he nodded. “Crystal.”

He didn’t even seem flustered or threatened. He just stood there, hands tight around the glasses, meeting Nero’s gaze without hesitation. Fuck, it was infuriating how calm he was, even now. Part of Nero just wanted him to get angry, too, so they could shout at each other, and fight, and clear the air for good. 

“They’re kids,” he went on, “and they’ve had it rough. Sometimes they’re gonna be angry and mean and emotional for little apparent reasons, but if you’re gonna live here, you’ll have to be patient with them. All of them… they all had parents abandon them early on, or die when demons invaded Fortuna five years ago.”

“I can certainly sympathize,” Vergil replied.

This time, the solid calm of his voice deflated Nero’s anger instead of stoking it. Shit. Of course he would. Neither Vergil nor Dante had ever bothered to give him the details, but Trish _had_ mentioned the portrait on Dante’s desk was his mother’s, and everyone knew Sparda wasn’t around anymore. Whatever had happened there, it was obvious the brothers had lost their parents, and from what he’d gleaned of Lady’s short tale about the Temen-ni-gru, the loss had shaped both of their lives. Damn, but he wished either of them would tell him about these things directly. The closest he’d gotten was what V had shared, but hadn’t that also been coated with half-truths?

“Right. Dante never said…” He let it trail off, unsure what exactly to ask, or how much he wanted to hear.

“We were eight,” Vergil provided. “I was playing outside. Our mother saved Dante. I… had to save myself.”

He touched the strange amulet at his neck, then his fingers slid lower, to his chest, a pained expression flickering through his face. This must have been what V had meant, when he’d said Red Grave City had been attacked once. And the house… Nero cursed himself for not paying more attention to it now instead of rushing after Urizen. 

“Can’t have been easy,” he said, feeling utterly foolish for it. Of course it hadn’t been, and Vergil wasn’t the kind to be comforted by trite words. His father pinned him under intense blue eyes.

“We’re all shaped by our struggles, Nero.” He extended the pile of glasses, and Nero hurriedly took them out of his hands, glad for something to do. “These are not things I enjoy sharing, but if you wish to hear of them, I…”

Part of Nero wanted to force it all out of him--every detail of his family’s history, pieced together through disparate events but otherwise kept from him. He longed to see himself in it, to get the answers about who he was he’d always felt deprived of, but he knew that line of thought would just lead to more disappointment. Vergil’s history explained Vergil and no one else. Except… that, too, was something he’d love to have.

“I’m not interested in every shard of your trauma, old man,” he said, a little harsher than intended. He set the glasses down on the counter, then flicked the water on and started filling the sink, watching the level rise as he considered his next words. “I just… fuck, I just wish I could tell what goes on in your head sometimes.”

“Ah.”

And there it was again, Vergil’s abysmal ‘ah’, the bane of all their conversations together. Nero whirled around, water drops flicking from his fingers as he pointed at Vergil. “Like _that._ That fucking little sound you use to cover your thoughts all the damn time. I bet if I could understand that, we’d fight a whole lot less.”

His outburst clearly took Vergil by surprise, and the man’s lips parted for what Nero would’ve sworn was another shitty ‘ah’, but it thankfully never came out. Instead, Vergil stayed silent, which was barely any better.

“Just talk, damnit,” Nero said. 

“I would rather not voice everything on my mind,” Vergil said.

“That fucking bad, huh?” Nero asked, and he saw Vergil clamp down on himself at the attack, retreating behind a wall of cold arrogance.

“Is a man not allowed the privacy of his own thoughts, then?”

Was that a hint of anger in his voice? Nero couldn’t help but smirk, impressed that he was managing to rile up Vergil before the reverse became true. He crossed his arms, looked him up and down as casually as he could, and replied, “Of course, but he better not complain when everyone else concludes he’s a heartless, aloof bastard. We all make our own choices.”

Vergil’s eyebrows shot up, and what little irritation Nero had perceived earlier vanished entirely. He squared his shoulders and a cold smirk danced on his lips before he uttered a long, well-felt 

“ _Ah_.”

Nero scowled--this fucking asshole was back to it, and he _knew_ , and he’d totally done it on purpose--and was about to suggest they take up their face-punching contest again, but Vergil left him no time. 

“At least there’s no mistaken identity this way.” Vergil pushed a hand through his hair, replacing the small strands that had escaped their perfect positioning, every inch of him exuding pride, then he turned heels. “I’ll clear the table, then, and make myself scarce.”

A dozen different paths presented themselves to Nero. He considered letting him go and just forgetting this whole father and son thing, since it was clearly going nowhere but in a wall. He considered grabbing Vergil by the shoulder and yanking him back before he walked out, but that boundary had been clearly established earlier, and _he_ wasn’t an asshole. He considered just punching Vergil hard and fast to vent his anger, but Kyrie would scold him, and, fuck, they’d actually been going somewhere five minutes ago. So in the end, he ended up snapping angrily.

“Fucking hell, Vergil. Sit down.”

To Nero's surprise, Vergil did stop partway through the door. He still held himself tight, like nothing in the world would affect him, but his shoulders lifted and lowered from a deep breath before he turned around. “We're off to another bad start, it seems.”

“Yeah, no shit.” All right. Deep breaths. Neither of them needed to talk about that _Ah_ ever again. They needed to move forward, and for all of Vergil’s posturing, Nero _knew_ he wanted this to work, too. “I’d like to hear your story, and about my mom.  But only if it’s not too painful to tell. I’m interested. I just--you don’t have to.”

Vergil remained in the doorway, lips sealed, for what felt like an eternity. He wasn't moving _at all_ \--no shifting on the balls of his feet, no finger twitching, no movements with his head. Nothing but the occasional blink and, eventually, the biting of his lower lip. Nero was quivering, as if all of Vergil's contained nervous energy had transferred directly to him. Then it all released at once, like someone had deflated Vergil by suddenly pulling out the stick in his ass. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, and Nero was struck by how vulnerable he suddenly seemed.

“Not tonight,” he said, his voice very low, “but Nero… I…” He sighed, exasperated, and some of his stiffness return--like he needed that shield before he continued. “When I hesitate to speak, it is rarely to hide less kind commentary. I--” Nero could almost hear him gather his courage in the subsequent silence. “It's to… conceal.” 

He cleared his throat. Nero stared at him. It would be comical, how difficult this was for him to say, if it wasn’t so fucking sad. Maybe the kind thing to do was to help him. “You don't have to hide your feelings any more than you gotta hide Dante's porn, y'know. We all know you got those.”

Vergil scowled at him, and Nero only burst out laughing. After a while, his father sighed and sketched a smile. “I suppose so.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nevertheless, I believe the table is waiting.”

“Poor thing can't handle the wait a minute more. Maybe you better freeze time so you can save it from its fate.” 

Nero gestured at the dining room with a smirk, only to have Vergil's outline briefly shimmer in blue. He blinked, and his father reappeared, the tablecloth folded on his arm. His eyebrows arched, and he stared over Nero's shoulder. “You appear to be slacking off, son.”

No need to turn around to know all the dishes had piled up behind him. He barked a quick laugh and crossed his arms. “Asshole.”

“I only followed your suggestion,” he pointed out, and although his tone remained stoic and smooth, and the fucker managed not to smile, something had shifted in him. Amusement shone in his blue eyes, and when he reached for the drying towel, Nero felt the low thread of resentment constantly burning within him dwindle down. He turned around, picking up a first dirty plate.

"Next time I'll tell you to do it all, and save myself the trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil and Nero like to take one step forward and then two steps back with that relationship huh? But heyyy it's progress!! Let me say, I *love* Vergil and Kyrie together, and next week has my favourite scene of them <3 Super excited to share at last!


	20. The Melody of Fortuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil settles into the routines of his new life, and finds a quiet moment with Kyrie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half a transition chapter, half one of my favourite quiet scenes I've ever written <3 I hope you enjoy!

Life in Fortuna turned out far less tumultuous than Vergil’s first night would have indicated. Vergil spent his first day cleaning his own luggage and following Kyrie around the house, undertaking any task she set before him. At first he felt utterly ridiculous, sitting in their minuscule living room and sewing up tears in the children’s outfits, but it busied his hands and kept part of his mind occupied. Kyrie managed to make it feel normal, somehow, for him to partake in these mundane efforts, as if he hadn’t spent most of his life struggling to survive, either in Hell or before. It was in the way she glided past him and complimented his work, in how she both kept an eye on him but afforded him much needed space, in how it never felt like he was anything _special_ to her, just a pair of hands in the house. And of course it wasn’t so simple--she _was_ Nero’s partner--but she made Vergil feel like it didn’t matter, and he hadn’t realized how much he appreciated the opportunity to make his own first impressions. Almost like starting over was an actual possibility, and not a lie he kept telling himself.

Nico waited no more than a day before declaring she was stealing him ‘for a wild day in Fortuna’. He’d left the exact meaning unquestioned and regretted the decision when she’d pulled the van into what, by all accounts, could only be called a scrap yard. Nico of course insisted to bestow the term “treasure trove” upon it, and when faced with Vergil’s doubts, she plunged into the maze of detritus piles to prove him wrong. He stayed back, all of his senses on alert, convinced one of the mounds of trash would animate and attack them, mentally praying none of them would look like Nightmare again. In the end, nothing untoward happened, and Nico emerged with her arms full of scrap and, on top of them, a chunky laptop she brandished triumphantly.

“Your future teacher!” she declared. “Might need a bit of fixin’, but I can deal with that. Cheaper than buying new.”

The screen was chipped, it was missing a key, and it looked _old_ , but that only made it seem less intimidating. Not that he’d ever admit to ever considering any of this intimidating--they would catch him dead before that. Nico transferred her findings into his arms, then returned to digging out interesting bits, using him to ferry her picks to the van. He was about to protest this use of his time when she declared stop one of their Fortuna Day over, and left him to wonder what else, exactly, she had planned.

She brought him straight to _his_ treasure trove: the Fortuna Library.

Vergil stared at the massive building through the van’s front window, blue eyes trailing the shattered pillars up front, the many signs of destruction barely patched over, the way the front door hung off to the side, half-torn. The demon invasion had left scars all over the city, but here on the majestic building he’d spent so many hours in, Vergil saw them even more clearly. He hoped the wealth of lore inside was still intact and wondered, despite himself, if the witty and striking librarian who’d helped him sort through part of the collection still worked here--if she hated him, or Nero, or had moved on with her life. Perhaps he ought to find out, yet he did not relish the idea of such an awkward encounter. Not to mention her name had slipped through the cracks of his memory, taken like so many other things by either time or Mundus. But that was a problem for later: Nico was already halfway to the doors.

They used the public computers to investigate accounting classes, which was its own lesson about technology and internet again. It felt simple when she explained it, but he always ended up clicking the wrong places, and after he triggered a _very loud_ sex video in the middle of the dusty library, he declared he'd had enough. Nico was too busy crying with laughter to protest.

At least the disposition of the library hadn't changed despite the years, and he easily wound his way back to the right section. In Fortuna, the problem was never to find information on Sparda and the demon world, it was to sift through the elucubration of deluded fools who twisted everything through their religious lens. Even at nineteen, he’d known enough to parse through some of it, and Arkham had ferreted out what he’d missed. Now that he’d lived through so much more, it ought to be even easier.

Nico teased him for his dusty tomes as he piled them on a table, and eventually they’d gotten enough glares from other patrons disturbed by the noise that he knew he couldn’t stay. Which… these weren’t books one simply checked out. He told Nico to get the van ready, made a quick list of everything he was taking with him, and warped himself through the exit, not without a pang of guilt at the transgression. The librarians would have to forgive him; he needed this research.

The end of their wild day was spent at a small gelato shop by the sea, where Vergil could not help but take the strawberry sundae. Just to compare. Nico snapped a picture of it with her phone, to be delivered through fax and Morrisson, arguing that if they sent enough, _maybe_ Dante would finally get a proper cellphone and stay in touch. It seemed a gross underestimation of Dante’s stubbornness, but Vergil left Nico her illusions. Still. It had been more than a week since he’d left, and he promised himself to call the _Devil May Cry_. In case something had come up, _of course_. He could have gone several months without talking to Dante _just fine_. The sound of Dante’s casual “Devil May Cry” as he answered the phone did _not_ feel like warm hug, no more than Dante’s audible joy when he recognized Vergil’s voice.

They didn’t talk for long. There was no news, the calls no doubt cost a lot, and Vergil had to make them from the middle of the house, but it was grounding, and between his call, the eventual accounting classes, and the newly acquired books, Vergil felt like he could carve a routine for himself here.

Handling the kids remained an issue. He never knew what to tell them and he found himself carefully weighing every word and action, but they'd all seem to come to the conclusion he was boring and best left alone, which suited him fine. Julio hadn't quite abandoned his quest to find entertainment in him and frequently battered Vergil with questions about nothing and everything--what "Uncle Dante's" shop looked liked, if he liked he beach, if he was stronger than Nero (a careful, if somewhat untrue, "no" was given), his favourite ice cream flavour, where he was all those years ("imprisoned" didn't cut it, but he'd found nothing better), if he liked insects... Endless questions. Amelia mostly snobbed him until the day she challenged him to try and steal her ball, which turned out to be quite literally a child’s play even without freezing time. She took her defeat to heart, however, and kept coming back for more. It became their thing, the one moment she grudgingly interacted with him instead of glaring across the room, a back and forth of challenge and criticism from which she was very obviously learning.

Sometimes Kyrie asked him to watch over little Ticho, but she provided him with his favourite book, and Vergil's momentary terror diminished when he discovered the young boy wanted nothing more than to hear the same tale over and over. Vergil complied, but before long he'd learned the story by heart, and his mind couldn't help but drift to the three-year-old boy he'd never had a chance to meet. He doubted Nero had been a bookish child, yet part of him wondered if he might have become one, if Vergil had been around, his own nose so often stuffed in a book.

Some lines of thoughts, Vergil decided, were best left unpursued. 

It was so hard, though, not to wonder at what could have been, not to let his mind stray back to the demon world’s waterfall, to his hand clutching the amulet as he stumbled toward the edge, to Dante’s rush forward to catch him. Would he have gone, had he known a son was waiting for him? No matter how often Vergil pushed the thoughts away, they dogged him, haunting the house in the form of three children, in Nero’s own easy interactions with them, all mirrors of a life he could’ve had. But Vergil’s life had been riddled with bitter what-ifs, and he had no desire to let one more govern him. He needed to focus on the life that _was_ , for which he’d paid dearly, and to make the most of it. 

He would never have imagined this could mean stretching out on his bed late at night after an entire day of cooking, cleaning, and studying, preparing to will the night away by exploring Blake’s words once more while he played one of the many discs Kyrie and Nero had left for him. Tonight, he picked the unmarked disc, which he’d yet dared to put on.

Vergil froze when he recognized the voice rising from his stereo, every note crystal clear, woven together with impressive mastery. He had heard Kyrie sing, of course--she was always humming something as she worked, melodies following her through the house as surely as Vergil’s ghosts tracked him, but he had forgotten it was more than a hobby. This was _professional_. He closed his poetry collection, paying instead attention to every note and inflection in tone and rhythm, memories pushing at the edge of his mind. There had been music in his home, too, and he remembered holding a violin, practicing on it, even discussing songs with his father… but when he tried to turn impressions from this song into a concrete event, he found only blank spaces in his mind. It must have been their mother, then, making the music--another thing taken by Mundus. He wrapped his fingers around Eva’s amulet and let Kyrie’s sweet melody wash the frustration away. 

He couldn’t dwell on the shattered parts of his past. He had survived, and he was making new memories.

Vergil slid out of bed and reached for the Yamato, and calm washed over him as his fingers clasped around the scabbard’s lacquered wood. The familiar weight lent him confidence, allowed Vergil to recenter himself. He was a son of Sparda. Loss had always been a part of his life, but he’d long since learned to function with the dull ache. 

Without a word, Vergil changed into the sleeveless shirts he favoured for training, and headed for the inner courtyard.

****

###

****

Kyrie loved the stars. She did not remember a time when she didn’t slip out at night to stare at them, a scattering of shining dust above their heads, reassuringly eternal despite their ever-changing conformations. The sky was big and vast, and when she looked into it, it felt like her pains and fears shrunk, softened by the grandeur of what lay outside of herself. It was silly, perhaps. She did not matter less because somewhere impossibly far away, chemicals burned, yet the perspective soothed her and on her more anxious nights, she preferred not to question the effect.

She had done a lot of stargazing after Credo died, clinging to the sky’s immutable presence, perceptible even through her tears. Sometimes Nero had joined her. They’d stay there, silent, and she would keep her eyes on the night above until she fell asleep in his arms. Being there with him and the stars had been one of the rare things that dulled the ache, that first year.

Tonight it was nerves she was trying to soothe, from another of Nero’s prolonged absence. They’d known he might not return--his hunt was out of Fortuna, and Nico and him avoided needlessly travelling overnight--but still… Everything happened so fast, with demons, and although the iBreaker’s built-in phone allowed for near instant communication--something Nico had created at her request--Kyrie couldn’t help but fret. She _knew_ he would be home tomorrow, but until she heard him say her name again, she would worry. It was inevitable.

“He’ll be fine.”

Vergil’s voice sliced through the night, startling her. She forcibly kept her eyes on the stars above and smiled. “I know. He always is, in the end.” 

Except for once, one horrible day when his scream had burst through their home’s corridor, bouncing off the walls until they lodged themselves in her heart, stealing her breath away. Kyrie hesitated, then lowered her gaze to the man responsible, standing in the door’s shadow, white hair catching only part of the moonlight. He held the very sword he’d reclaimed that day.

“Besides, the one time he wasn’t was much closer to home, wasn’t it?”

Vergil froze, posture tightening so much she expected him to bolt, and he remained silent. She sighed. It had perhaps been unkind to bring it up so suddenly, but sometimes it became too much, to remain steadfast and kind, to leave her pain for quieter, more private moments when others wore it so plainly. It had only been a few months since Vergil had ripped Nero’s arm off, and while the two of them had lived through a lot since, she had been left behind to deal with that particular event and the ripples it’d left in the house. Kyrie sighed and turned back to the sky.

“Please don’t mind me.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, surprising her. Until now, he had always been more than happy to avoid the subject, but she heard the crunch of his boots on grass then sand, as he neared her perch near the rubble. “I may not be the best person to do this with, but if it troubles you, then you should speak of it.”

Kyrie couldn’t quite keep herself from laughing. “Really? That is not advice you apply to yourself, Mr. Vergil.”

And then _he_ laughed--a brief, sharp chuckle--and it was rare enough that she turned to stare at him. In the slim second it took her, the serious mask had returned, but she was certain she hadn’t misheard. It still amazed her, how different he was from Nero in this, how much more stingy with his feelings. Vergil shook his head briefly, then sat on another flat piece of rubble, the sword by his side, and tilted his head back to look at the sky.

“Perhaps I fear that if I did speak of such things, I would never stop.”

Kyrie had to wonder what had put him in such a strange mood. He had been around for a week now, and already his presence made a huge difference in the house. She hadn't expected Vergil to be diligent, discreet, and hard working, but she'd learned quickly that who he was around her and who he let Nero see were two very different person. Certainly, Vergil was all pride and sharp, cutting angles, yet it felt like he managed to pull those back when she spoke with him, the same way Nero's anger inevitably deflated around her. Even so, he mostly kept to himself, cushioning his thoughts under long silences. She would not have expected him to admit to being troubled in any shape or form, let alone to such an extent.

"Would it be such a bad thing?" she asked, as much to herself as to him. Vergil did not answer, but she hadn't expected him to.

They sat there in silence for a time, Kyrie with her gaze on the stars, Vergil keeping his eyes closed, one hand always over his sword. It was… peaceful, really. The summer nights were still hot, and no wind really blew in the inner court, giving the air a heavy, sometimes stifling quality. Tonight it felt like a blanket over her, calming her thoughts and keeping anxiety or awkwardness away, and Vergil's steady presence only added to the effect. She couldn’t explain why; maybe it was how constrained he was, compared to Nero’s vibrant liveliness. It felt like nothing could shake him, even though he’d repeatedly proven that was untrue.

“When I took back the Yamato…” He started suddenly, disrupting their quiet peace, then trailed off, losing courage halfway through. Kyrie reluctantly looked away from the stars, to Vergil’s sword, a slim dark shape against the pale rock. She wasn’t certain she wanted to hear this at all, but Vergil took a deep breath and forged on. “I was in terrible pain and upset that a stranger kept _my_ sword. But more than anything… I needed it to survive.” He brought the Yamato on his knees and clasped his hands over it, though not fast enough to hide their tremor from Kyrie. “I understand if the result is not something you can move past. I want to get to know Nero, but I do not have to _live_ here to do so. You need but ask.”

“You could live anywhere in the world, Mr. Vergil, and it would never erase that moment from my mind.” Her voice was sharp, steady, more cutting than she’d intended. “I will _always_ remember--the scream, the blood, the rush to the hospital… How he vanished without a word, so soon after--that was your doing, too, wasn’t it?” 

Nero had been extremely apologetic about it on his return, but she hadn’t quite forgiven him for following V like that, without a word to her. Kyrie sighed. She wasn’t certain what had gotten into her tonight; these were things she preferred to keep to herself until she’d decided exactly what needed to be said about them, and how. She raised a hand to silence Vergil before he could speak. 

“It’s not your presence in the house that brings it back, however. These things simply are, and they will stay with me whether or not _you_ do. Don’t be so conceited as to believe you alone can solve this.”

Vergil didn’t immediately answer, and she could feel him weighing her words, even without turning around. At length, he said, “Fair enough. I will defer to your judgement in this matter.” He paused, tilted his head to the side, still staring at his sword. “Nevertheless, I hope my continued presence in the house has not been an inconvenience.”

“Did I ever give you reason to think so?” she asked, her tone light, as if that simple question was not a trap in itself. She didn’t think she had, but if he said yes, he’d have to explain how she’d failed as a host. If he said no, then he had no reason to complain or suggest it might be the case, and was in fact inferring insult by doing so. She’d caught him once like this, the day of his arrival, and this time Vergil recognized the question for what it was and shook his head. 

“I’m afraid you didn’t need to,” he replied, shifting the blame away from her.

“Then, please, don’t trouble yourself.” She turned to him and let her hand hover above his shoulder for a few seconds, waiting for his near imperceptible nod--a confirmation he had seen her, and acknowledged her wish to touch him. Gently, she set her hand down. “You’ve actually made quite the difference, Mr. Vergil, and I appreciate the help.”

He tensed, though whether from her touch or words, she couldn’t tell. “I’m glad, then.”

She thought the silence would return, sliding peacefully between them as it so often did, but Vergil surprised her, initiating another conversation. That, too, was far from habitual for him.

“How long have you been singing?”

Kyrie snatched her hand back in surprise. “Oh, I--” Had he listened to the disks, then? She glanced upward, at his closed window, and wondered. Vergil did tend to put music on late in the evening, sometimes so late into the night she and Nero fell asleep while it played at the limit of the audible. It had only been a matter of time until he reached her recordings. She’d known this, yet her heart hammered all the same. “For as long as I can remember, really. It soothes me.”

“It’s… beautiful.”

There was _awe_ in Vergil’s voice, along with something deeply nostalgic, and for a moment Kyrie didn’t know what to do with herself. She thanked her stars that he wasn’t looking at her as her cheeks burned from the compliment, then managed to get words out, past her surprise. “It’s years of hard work, but thank you. Singing is an indelible part of me.”

“That is a feeling I understand,” he replied, and with his thumb, he pulled part of the Yamato out, to stare at the blade. “I had meant to train, but I thought I would be alone. Would it bother you if I…?”

He gestured at the courtyard, standing up, and her eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean for me to leave, I hope.”

A hint of shyness flitted through his expression, but he clamped down on it quickly, straightening his shoulders. “Of course not. You can watch all you want.”

The clipped tone barely covered his awkwardness, and she suspected he’d rarely had spectators watching him before but that his pride wouldn’t let him admit to any discomfort. Kyrie almost laughed, yet something in Vergil’s general attitude tonight kept her from it. He felt fragile, out of his element, and more importantly, he’d allowed her to glimpse it, intentionally or not. She knew Nero shut down and turned to anger if he felt mocked when more vulnerable, and she suspected Vergil would be similar, so she allowed him his flimsy cover.

“With great pleasure,” she said. “I might even provide a soundtrack, if I can think of a song that fits your rhythm.”

Vergil strode away with a _second_ quick laugh, to reach the center of the courtyard. Eight blue swords shimmered in a circle around him, at shoulder height, then slowly dispersed through the area, providing targets. He turned back to face her, one hand on the Yamato’s grip, the other on its scabbard, and met her gaze with a slight, confident smile. Any trace of vulnerability had vanished; Kyrie could sense the strength flow from him now, power ready to be unleashed. 

“I’ll try to keep the time freezes predictable, then, so you can adjust.”

Then he was off, drawing the Yamato with a whisper and leaping upward with a spin to hit the first sword hovering above him. As it shattered with a soft, crystalline sound, a blue shimmer engulfed Vergil’s body, and he vanished from sight, a shadow barely visible against the sky, gone an instant, then standing by a second sword, his downward strike already finished, his back to Kyrie but his head turned enough that she could see his smirk. He sheathed the Yamato, and as it clicked into place, all seven swords around the courtyard shattered. It had taken him barely a second. Vergil set a hand on his hip and cast his gaze around the empty courtyard. 

“Hm.” He extended an arm in a relaxed (and, Kyrie knew, unnecessary) gesture, bringing sixteen new summoned swords into existence. “That ought to take longer.”

It did--a handful of seconds longer. Kyrie laughed as he landed lightly in the middle of the courtyard, the Yamato already sheathed, summoned swords exploding in a shower of blue sparks around them. Nero always showed off when she was around to watch, too.

“Perhaps it would last longer if you summoned a new sword every time you make one vanish, Mr. Vergil,” she said.

“A helpful suggestion, but I have a slightly different exercise in mind.” 

He bowed to her, his expression serious and reverent, his blue eyes shining with pleasure, and Kyrie could easily see why Nico thought he was sort of a dork, when he allowed himself to be. She’d have loved a film of this, but Kyrie’s phone had remained inside, and it felt a tad too private to share. With exaggerated solemnity, Vergil conjured a new set of swords, then closed his eyes, falling back into his fighting trance.

For once, Vergil didn’t freeze time. When he sprang into action, he kept his movement carefully controlled, calculated, _rhythmic_. It took her a moment to recognize the pattern--at first she couldn’t think past the grace and fluidity of every step and strike, so different from Nero’s quick and powerful moves--but as her amazement diminished, her musical brain picked up on the timing of his shattered swords, on how the crystalline sound of their breaking changed pitch depending on how he hit them, creating the bare bones of a familiar melody: the first track on one of the two discs in his room.

It was easy, once she’d heard it, to raise her voice to match the song of his training. Every now and then, Vergil landed his hit slightly off-beat, or created a sound with a pitch too low or too high, and a brief scowl crossed his features. He could tell he’d made a mistake, and Kyrie wondered how much music he’d done himself, for his ear to be this good even as he moved through his fighting routine. That he even remembered the melody was already a feat in itself.

Impressed, caught in the moment, Kyrie stood up and let the lyrics flow out of her before she could think better of it. It was an old holy chant on Fortuna, an ode to human perseverance and beauty, written as though Sparda himself was bestowing praise upon them. It had a history of controversy--many contended it was heresy to speak for Sparda--which was why the recording held only the notes, not the lyrics, but Kyrie had always loved the message, and she saw so much of Nero in the humanity described. 

Vergil missed more and more notes as she went on, and for a time she considered stopping, but something in the determined set of his jaw kept her going. They carried through together, sword and voice, until the last note faded away. Vergil stood in the middle of the courtyard, a thin film of sweat on his arms, his chest heaving from exertion. He slid the Yamato back into its scabbard.

“That song--” His voice caught, and he shook his head. “I have memories of it.”

Kyrie hesitated. She could feel his gaze searching her, seeking answers, but she didn’t have any. “It’s very traditional here. Perhaps you’ve heard it on your first visit?”

“No, it’s… older.” Piercing blue eyes caught Kyrie’s as realization washed over Vergil, then he spun away, hiding his face from her. “I think… Perhaps Mother used to sing it, too, with different lyrics.” Vergil tilted his head back briefly, and Kyrie could almost feel him wrestle himself under control. When he allowed himself to look back, his face had returned to its usual, smooth expression. “Nevertheless, that was a curious exercise. I appreciate the change from my routine.”

Kyrie longed to ask him what different lyrics he’d heard, and whether or not Sparda himself had written them, but she refrained from the questions, at least for now. Vergil had seemed shaken by the idea, and she’d rather not leave him bad memories of this night.

“Perhaps you ought to listen to more of the disc, then, to give us more options.” She smiled at him, and was surprised to catch him smiling back, ever so slightly. He must have truly enjoyed this. “I don’t often have instrumental support when I practice and you have quite the musical ear.”

Vergil _blushed_. It was hard to tell in the pale moonlight, but she would’ve sworn his cheeks reddened, something not even the exertion had caused. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, “those small _tinks_ can hardly be called music.”

Kyrie strode down the pile of rubble, tilting her chin up as she walked to him. “Of the two of us, I’m the expert, and as such I will call it as I wish.” She continued past him, giving him no time to reply, only waving above her shoulder as she continued. “Good night, Mr. Vergil, and I look forward to our next practice session.”

She slipped into their tranquil house and checked on the children to make sure they still slept. It had been a strange night, yet as Kyrie crept back up, humming the hymn still, she knew with absolute certainty that Nero’s screams would not haunt her dreams this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FWIW (and because I get comments on it XD), I know there are a lot of very romantic headcanons about Nero's mothers, but mine are... very much not? They're not exactly angsty, either, they're just very tied up into my strong perception (projection? lol) of Vergil as asexual (gray ace) and aromantic. It'll come up more later, but I guess this is me warning you not to get too hyped about Nero's mom in this fic? XD
> 
> Anyway, I also have A TON of headcanons about music and art, and all of the Sparda family (which also come up later haha). I hope everyone enjoyed the two happy (ish) Fortuna Family interlude, because we're back to The Plot And Crunchy Feels (TM) next week. :] (if you want a hint, Chapter 21 is called "Castle of Souls" haha)


	21. Castle of Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil and Nero head out to Fortuna Castle in the hopes of finding new information about demons and souls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a chunky one this week! It is very full of feelings, and you'll note I fudged with the castle's layout and stayed purposefully vague.

As time passed, life in Fortuna settled into its own, peculiar rhythm. Now that Julio and Amelia had started school again, Vergil occasionally spent the evening with them, studying his accounting material while they did their homework, helping them to the best of his limited patience. They, in return, kept helping him find where on the accursed computer his latest download had gone, or how to open zip files, or any other innocently simple technological task he still struggled with. Sometimes it lingered with him, that literal children were better than him with this, and when the sting of humiliation grew too strong, he sought Kyrie for another musical training session.

He eventually received a peculiar e-mail from Lady, with a picture of Dante and her fighting and a simple message about unexpected back-up duty to be charged into the _Devil May Cry_ ’s account. Dante must have told her of his plans, then. He replied that he trusted she had the appropriate contract and a formal invoice, otherwise he couldn’t possibly consider her demand as legitimate. This, he eventually discovered, was a mistake. Lady promptly started sending him regular invoices, either with serious fees but written on the back of receipts or other detritus, or with a very proper presentation but for things such as “surviving another one of Dante’s puns” or “calling the pizza”, all with ridiculous amounts set on them. Naturally, Vergil began to nitpick on those particular invoices, pretending the font, typos, or lack of address rendered them invalid. Before long, they were exchanging e-mails every other day, or near enough, bickering about debts and money owed.

His planner also saw frequent use now. Between the household chores, the accounting reads and homework, and his own research, Vergil had enough going on to write lists daily. He’d gotten into a habit of rising with the sun--sleep, even here, still escaped him on most days--and planning his day while the water for coffee and tea boiled. Children had a tendency to shatter most of his prepared schedules, but he enjoyed them nonetheless, and his success rate had hiked since school had started. Kyrie had even started double checking her lists with his to keep chores from slipping her mind.

Through it all, Vergil’s careful leafing through the library’s arcane books yielded no concrete results, and his prolonged failure to confirm theories about movement between the human and demon world bothered him. This black sludge could not simply appear in the human world, carrying demon souls. Something had to make it cross, but they’d found no traces of summonings or hell gates in any of the locations. As far as he knew, only the Yamato could pierce the veil without leaving an obvious trail, and only if the latter was weakened.

Nico, at least, had better luck with his gift. After a bunch of other inconclusive tests, she’d chosen to scrape off most of the sludge from the book, and excitedly invited him to come see the result. Vergil had crowded in the van with Nero, and Nico had showed them a sealed fish bowl with the sludge inside, shaped like a four-legged lesser demon, only… smaller, and less well-defined. As if the soul half-remembered its true shape, but couldn’t form a body beyond what the sludge allowed. When Vergil had asked how she’d separated it from the book, she’d called it “electrified demonic pressure”, only to turn to Nero and add, “big zap”. He’d rolled his eyes.

“You’re lucky it didn’t explode in your face.”

“It ain’t luck if it’s science!” Nico had retorted, and they started bickering about the quality of her scientific process. 

Vergil couldn’t tear his gaze from the minuscule demon, so similar to the miniature versions of Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare that had sometimes crawled in his palm, eager for battle. Lesser demons never had much of a mind, but he wondered how much consciousness this one had retained. Was the shape reflexive? Was it aware it’d been trapped in a body not its own? Meanwhile, the argument between Nero and Nico raged on, sliding into whether or not Agnus’s research was any good, or could even be called science. 

“It ain’t about him being an asshole, Nero, it’s about his notes being right. Genius just runs in the family, ya can’t deny that!”

“Yeah, so does crazy,” Nero countered. “You shouldn’t be playing with demon souls, Nico. It’ll lead nowhere good.”

“Neither will ignorance,” Vergil snapped, and he met Nero’s glare with one of his own. “Demon souls are slipping into this world and possessing objects. If you want to sit back, wait for things to go south, and _then_ wade in to destroy whatever it is, be my guest, but I prefer to be a step ahead. And for that, we need knowledge.”

“I ain’t gonna create my own artificial demons, Nero,” Nico added, leaning against the wall of the van and crossing her arms. “Just wanna help y’all hunt them.”

Nero huffed and turned his glare to the sludge demon in its jar. “I just don’t like it. It’s like someone took the Fortuna-Castle Bullshit Dial and cranked it up to ten. Agnus’s dead. The Order’s a shell. This whole thing should be a fucking memory.”

“Memories have a way of clinging to us,” Vergil said. Mundus should be gone, too, sealed away by Dante and excised by the Yamato, yet he dogged Vergil everywhere, a phantom in his spine and a reminder of his shattered pride, of years of submission, of defeat. Had Agnus easily snatched his soul for his artificial knights because it had already been broken by a much more powerful entity? He tried to shake the thought away, to focus on the conversation at hand, on the present. “What of this Fortuna Castle? Could there be anything left to learn from it?”

“Fuck no,” Nero said. “Nico and I raided it more than a year ago. It’s how we met.”

Nico produced a pack of cigarettes and shoved one in her mouth. “Dunno, man,” she said, searching for her lighter. “I know a whole damn more now than I did a year ago. We might’ve missed something in the labs on our first go.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“Worth a shot, dontcha think?” 

She clicked the lighter a few times, and just as Vergil was about to take it and help, Nero snatched it out of her hands and lit it up. He stared at her as he brought the flame to her cigarette.

“I’ll pretend I don’t hate it.” He snapped the lighter close, threw it back at Nico, then turned to Vergil. “You comin’?”

Nero’s offer surprised him. He’d been settled in Fortuna for a few weeks now, and while they sparred at times, Vergil had only followed him on a hunt once. The demons had been such pathetic creatures, it’d been obvious his time was better spent at the house, either helping Kyrie or furthering his own research and studies. But this was, in a fashion, field research. Nico seemed to hope for significant clues, and neither of them had more experience with the demon world than he did. Furthermore, if her father’s laboratory was in there… He had to see it, didn’t he? Where pieces of his soul had been transferred into vulgar armours. See it, and perhaps show it the true power of the Yamato.

Regardless of all these very, very rational reasons to go, there was the fact his stomach had fluttered at Nero’s question, and that no amount of time spent traipsing in Fortuna Castle could be called a waste, if it was spent with him.

****

###

****

Fortuna Castle loomed above them, an impressive structure of graceful stone arcs and high windows perched over deadly cliffs, its pale walls a fiery red in the setting sunlight. Vergil had paused at the slim bridge leading to it, his gaze drawn upward, lifted by the way every spire seemed to reach for the sky, and he couldn't help the twinge of sadness at the obvious signs of destruction--minarets crumpled, broken windows, collapsed walls--whether through age or battle. Nero was already halfway across by the time Vergil realized his son hadn't even slowed at the approach, and was now calling to him.

"Come on, old man! We're not here for sightseeing."

Vergil hurried forward with a slight shrug. They were in no particular hurry, having already warned Kyrie they wouldn't be home tonight, but in the few days leading to this expedition, Vergil had come to understand Nero's relationship with this castle was wrapped in disagreeable memories. Lingering on the décor only forced him to stay here longer, and Vergil saw no point in that.

Wind caught into his three-tailed coat as he crossed the bridge, his strides long and confident, one hand over the Yamato’s grip. It had been too long since he’d dressed for battle, and the familiar weight of the coat on his shoulder was much like coming home. He’d missed this, the easy certainty in his battle prowess, the coat-gloves-sword combo he’d claimed as his own through so much of his life, a promise of death to any demons crossing his path.

Life in Kyrie's household had its own set of quiet challenges, and it constantly amazed Vergil that he could spend so much time on nothing but routine chores without having to keep moving, one step ahead of pursuit, one step forward in his plans to grasp more power. It surprised himself, how much he enjoyed the focus on the next meal, on untangling the many accounting norms and treatments he was expected to learn, on filling his evenings with quiet poetry or music, or listening to Nero play with the children through the window. It was _nice_ , but… it wasn’t complete.

This--demon hunting, fighting, digging into the secrets of the demon world--this was what had been missing. Following Nero into the great gates of Fortuna Castle rooted Vergil into himself, grounding him in his history. He was a Son of Sparda, one of the most powerful demons of this world, and his mastery of the blade was unparalleled. Those parts of him could never be domesticated, nor had he any desire to. Fighting had defined him for too long to ever be discarded.

Something in the air here set Vergil on high alert. He felt no demonic aura to speak of, yet he couldn’t help but scan the entrance hall warily, searching the sweeping staircases and stone columns for a sign of danger. The late afternoon sun dove into the room through the high windows, sometimes dampened by dirty glass, sometimes unfiltered and almost blinding, but if one discounted the broken tables and mirrors, there was nothing out of ordinary here. Yet it all felt… hazy, as if reality was but a thin, invisible film covering another world. Vergil frowned, trying to pinpoint the nagging feeling at the edge of his mind, only to realize it came from the Yamato. It was vibrating, in a way unlike its now-familiar reaction to Nero, but not entirely foreign.

“Nero.” 

The young man had gone ahead again, using his devil breaker to hook himself to a chandelier above and swing across the room, breaking part of the glass before landing on a table and stomping over it without a care in the world. He was never the most respectful of locations, but Vergil couldn’t help but feel he was taking extra steps to be destructive now, and when he whirled around at his name, he looked almost insulted to be interrupted.

“You losing your nerve?” he asked. “It’s only a routine check so Nico can follow us.”

“Don’t be preposterous.” He never lost his nerves. If he retreated, then he knew himself to be outmatched, and that never happened. “Were you aware the veil between the human and demon worlds is paper thin, here? I’ve not seen anything like it since the Qliphoth was emerging.”

“Huh.” Nero set a hand on his hip and looked around the room, frowning. “Fortuna’s always like this, no?”

“Not quite, no.” It was certainly thinner over the island in general, but here it felt like the slightest push could rip it apart, and any human with some summoning knowledge could call demon through. “If I sneezed holding the Yamato, I would be liable to pierce it.”

“Oh, great!” Nero threw his arms up and started off again. “Just more Fortuna Castle bullshit, then. Let’s get going before you catch a cold or whatever.”

Vergil hurried through the room to catch up with him, careful to stride around the tables and upturned chair. He did leap up the left staircase, however, warping himself across and landing at their top just as Nero arrived from the other side. With his son so close and the veil so thin, the Yamato was almost humming by his hip.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an explanation, would you?”

Nero rolled his eyes. “You got no idea the amount of fucking around Agnus did in this place, do you? He had a bunch of flying shark-sword demon things slicing around his labs, and other twisted creations of his, not to mention the Orders’ armours he animated with demon souls. Maybe the Yamato’s freaking out because it remembers, too.”

“Remembers?” Vergil asked, fingers tracing the scabbard.

“Yeah. Lab’s where I found it. Agnus had a few shards floating, and I fixed it.”

Nero was a terrible liar, and not remotely better with half truths. Vergil stared at his back as he pushed the two great doors leading outside, wondering if he should press the issue of how, exactly, he’d “fixed” a blade such as the Yamato. It would give his mind something to latch onto and stop it from dragging up memories of how it had broken in the first place. Of his complete impotence when Mundus’ will had pressed his beaten body into Hell’s rough ground, spikes running through it. Of his own blood crawling under his cheek, the pool under him ever widening, his devil healing powers too spent to help him. Of his fingers stretching for the katana, desperate, as bright white cracks appeared across its length. It had smelled of sulfur, tasted of copper, felt like the ultimate betrayal of his heritage, the crystallization of his defeat--

“Hey, yo! Asshole?” 

Nero snapped fingers before his eyes, brutally bringing him back to the present. Vergil scowled, quick to shut away any surprise from his expression and clamp down on his hammering heart. 

“Have some manners, Nero,” he scolded even as he fought to push the memories of Mundus away, to forget the sound of his laughter, the stench of Hell, and the haunting powerlessness. He was in Fortuna Castle, in the archway leading into a majestic courtyard turned dry grass and rubble, and the Yamato was in one long deadly piece. He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking and focused on the hardness of the ground beneath his feet and the breeze in his hair.

Nero rolled his eyes at him with a scoff. “Dude, you were so far gone. Don’t check out of conversations if you don’t want me calling you back like a dog.”

Vergil bristled but withheld his retort--any denial would ring hollow, anyway, and he could hear the hint of worry under Nero’s dismissiveness. He held his silence, clinging to it as a cover for what had slipped through his control and scolding himself for the instant of weakness. Breaking down in front of Dante was more than enough, and he couldn’t bear the thought of letting Nero in on this part of him.

“As I was saying,” Nero started with unnecessary emphasis, “when I first got here, the castle was overrun by Frosts and other demons, all spilling through a pseudo Hellgate Agnus had opened here, in this courtyard. Dante destroyed it.” He motioned towards the stone remains of a slab-like structure on the other side of the courtyard. “This asshole told me he’d been using Devil Arms to power the gates, so that probably didn’t help the veil or whatever’s wrong with this place.”

“No, indeed…” Vergil strode to the remnants of the gate and crouched to examine them, but no particular energy emanated from them. The gate was well and truly closed, no matter how thinly. “It would be wise to remain vigilant about this location at all future times, Nero. You may dislike it, but I can imagine no other place as likely to be the source of a new influx of demon. It takes only one fool--”

“Yeah, I know,” Nero cut off. “I told ya. If there’s bullshit to be had, it’ll happen here.”

Vergil nodded, falling back into silence. The warning may have been superfluous, but it kept his mind on the present while he slowly tamed the low buzz of his skull and the latent fatigue from his brutal memories. This had happened often enough since his return from Hell that he’d now worked out a routine to keep moving. Ground himself in physical sensations. Contrast current reality with the past. Continue interacting with surroundings. Keep his mind busy. Let time wash the worse away. Some days it worked better than others, but at least Fortuna Castle provided ample distractions for some of these steps.

Nero led him out of the courtyard, down corridors and through a once hidden passage. Sometimes he commented on the layout or state of things before he'd wrecked it fighting demons, and at one point he began retelling a precise battle in details, taking obvious pleasure in flaunting his powers, until he sought to reenact a move, and punched forward with a very normal human arm instead of the dark, scaled arm Vergil had taken from him. They stood in silence in the small room, golden light illuminating Nero's face as it flashed through regret and anger and resignation, all traces of his previous, almost childish eagerness gone, both men staring at each other. Then Nero dropped his arm with a sigh.

"Anyway," Nero said, his tone a valiant attempt at casualness. "It was a cool arm."

"I'm... sorry for your loss," Vergil replied, as if he wasn't the cause of it, which all things considered made Nero's subsequent scowl and reaction well deserved.

"Fuck you."

He stalked away, and didn’t say another word to Vergil as they continued down the corridor, into a cylindrical and mechanical passage, to an utterly destroyed circular room. At first, Vergil searched for ways to initiate a new conversation, but the deeper into Fortuna Castle’s secret section they went, the more offput he was by the place. The Yamato’s presence seemed to push even harder at his mind, but that wasn’t what bothered him the most. No, the truly unsettling feeling crystallized as they entered the circular room: familiarity. As if he’d been here before, had seen these walls and walked them. But he _couldn’t_ remember when, or how, the memory as elusive as those of his mother. His hand went to the Yamato, positively vibrating with energy now. 

“Nero, what is this place?”

“The containment chamber,” he answered, tone stiff, before pointing at a shattered bay window. “Up there are the labs proper.”

He didn’t turn around, just jumped up to the lab level and stood on the platform there, his head turning slowly as his gaze took in the second room. Vergil picked his way across the containment chamber, absorbing as much of his surroundings as he could, hoping something, _anything_ , would trigger a clear memory. 

Vergil climbed up, and his gaze swept across the walls of wiring and tubs hooked into glass tanks or running towards the center, to a larger machinery with a top and bottom that seemed to be missing its glass. A metal walkway surrounded it, and in addition to the valves and other mechanisms spread through the room, Vergil spotted several stands reminiscent of those meant to hold weapons and armours. Most of it carried rust or scorch marks, and part of the walls had been actually blown off.

He could feel it still, right at the edge of his mind, like he had stood there himself, and it disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Could he be remembering the Yamato's passage? Could the katana truly have imprinted on him like this? He’d been with the Yamato for so long,  and through so much… His mind practically sank into the sword when he fought with it, the Yamato guiding his instincts as he moved through attack sequences. It wasn't entirely impossible, just… unlikely, no? And more unsettling than he cared to deal with at the moment.

"Nero… what if I said I've been here before." He hesitated, uncertain he wanted to speak more of this, or how to explain. Yet these labs struck a deep chord of malaise within him, and perhaps Nero's experience with them could shed some light on why. He turned to him, forcing himself to meet Nero’s gaze and hoping he could keep his face calm. "But I don't remember exactly how, or when, and I'm… certain I haven't been here, at the same time."

Nero scowled. “Start making fucking sense, Vergil. There’s no way you were--” His words died in a little strangled sound, followed by a profoundly uncharacteristic “Ah.”

Vergil’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at him. After Nero’s anger at his own use of the sound as a buffer, it was impossible not to latch upon this slip, and his profound amusement was almost enough to forget _something_ had crossed Nero’s mind. “Ah? If only I could fathom the meaning of--”

“Shut up!” Nero exclaimed, scowling at him and crossing his arms. “I’m thinking!”

A thin smile curled Vergil’s lips. Who could have ever guessed the sound made a good pause to gather your thoughts? 

“Ah,” he let out, with as much of an ‘I see’ intonation as he could. 

Nero’s hand shot forward, fingers spread out, as if he wanted to shove his palm all over Vergil’s face in playful vengeance. Vergil’s heart leaped in his chest, and he reflexively caught the wrist at the last moment. It took all his self-control not to keep the momentum going and swing Nero around, and his grip on the wrist must have been tighter than necessary, because Nero was staring at him with something akin to shock.

“Apologies,” Vergil said, releasing him.

Nero shook his wrist once, then his head. “No, it’s--I knew not to do that.”

It really wasn’t important, not now, and in truth part of Vergil was touched Nero had tried it, that he felt comfortable enough to reach for his face the way Dante would when they’d fought as children. _He_ wasn’t ready for this proximity, clearly, and he forced himself to stamp down on his yearning and focus on the matter at hand.

“Something had crossed your mind. About my presence here.”

"Yeah." He returned his attention to the room, his gaze eventually latching on a section of the wall, stained by dried blood. "When the Yamato… awakened, I guess, and repaired itself… it spoke to me. I thought it was the sword, anyway, but I've heard your voice in demon form now and…"

"You think I talked to you," Vergil said, his voice flat from the effort of controlling himself, of holding still and listening and letting nothing through.

Nero wiped his nose in a quick, almost angry movement--he was equally ill at ease, then. "Yeah. Look, near-death memories aren't exactly the clearest, ok?"

_Near death?_ Vergil's gaze snapped to the dried blood, then back to Nero, who hated this place, who'd grown more nervous and forceful ever since entering the labs, who had actually _buffered his thoughts_ before speaking earlier. His hand rested on the Yamato's pommel and its comforting vibration. Nero was alive, and here with him now, so Vergil forced himself to pay attention, before he missed a single word of this story.

"You weren't… really here. Just in my head. And you said something about the cry of a soul, and needing more power, and I'm pretty sure I agreed with that bit and woke up holding the Yamato." Nero flexed his now human hand, watching each finger in turn. "My memories after that are fuzzy. But the blade was shining blue, and I could call upon its power. It was like having a second fighter above me, like--” He paused, and snorted. “Like that shitty doppelganger of yours, actually. Fuck.”

Vergil stared at him, words dying long before they reached his lips. He didn’t remember any of this, but those were undeniably his words, his powers. Slowly, almost afraid it would shatter, he drew the Yamato out of its sheath and traced the beautiful engravings along its blade. Was a part of him truly in the sword? Could his soul have been drawn to it, once released from Nelo Angelo’s corrupted body, and talked to Nero?

“You know,” Nero started, a thread of shyness in his voice, “I used to think the Yamato was kinda like its own person.”

“I’m beginning to think it is, too,” Vergil whispered, and he ran his finger along the blade. 

Not exactly its own, perhaps, more of an extension of Vergil himself, but if he remembered these laboratories, then the Yamato must have imprinted itself back on him, too. It made him wonder how, exactly, his father had sealed his power within the Yamato and the Sparda, if they had a piece of his soul within them, too--if that fraction in the Sparda was with Dante, even now, within his twin’s new blade. The possibilities made his head swim, and it took him a moment to realise Nero had said his name. He was standing right by Vergil, hands on his hips, his half-smile contrasting with his hard gaze.

“Was just about to snap my fingers at your face again,” Nero warned. 

“If you’re so keen on losing them, do let me know,” Vergil countered, before flipping the Yamato in a casual circle. A flick of blue light caught his eyes in the movement, and he squinted at the blade.

“Yeah, you see it too, don’tcha?” Nero asked. “It’s shining.”

“It’s not supposed to,” Vergil said, as if that wasn’t obvious to Nero, too. 

“This is Fortuna Castle, old man. Nothing ever works the way it’s supposed to.” He threw his arms up, then vaulted over the railing and closer to the center of the room, where the most massive apparatus stood, now shut down. “Maybe it misses its little floaty space.”

A childish part of Vergil wanted to slide the Yamato back into its scabbard and hold it close to his chest, to keep it there next to Dante’s amulet and never let it go again. His inheritance, Dante had called it, yet it seemed to be much more than that now. In this blade was a piece of his soul, one which had saved his son long before he truly knew of his existence. Vergil followed Nero towards the center mechanically, as if he was watching himself move, the ground under his boots distant. He felt ethereal--detached--and he knew it was his mind playing tricks on him, that he was whole, and present, and that he needed to get a grip on himself, ground himself back in his own body, but it was so hard, when he felt the Yamato so keenly and some of its memories echoed in his mind as if they were his own. 

He should probably stop. Leave, and recover some stability, but Nero was poking at the machinery, and Vergil had never been one to quit. If there was more to find out, then he wanted to know. The Yamato’s shine grew into an unmistakable flame as he reached the centre, and Vergil glanced at Nero, hoping he’d have more of an explanation. His son only shook his head.

“The entire place’s bullshit,” he said, before kicking hard at the metallic box in front of him where all the tubes ended, and on which were several suspicious levers, buttons, and handles. 

The Yamato flared, briefly blinding, and all its flames sank into the control panel, bringing it to life. A faint click echoed from it, then the ground rumbled under their feet. Vergil tightened his grip on the Yamato, keeping it ready as Nero drew Red Queen, planted it into the ground, and revved its handle. Slowly, with a grinding mechanical clanking, the tight circle at the center of the room detached itself from the surrounding railings and lowered itself into the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Fortuna Castle, where father and son can bond over their respective trauma and how much they hate this place. This is essentially a three-parter? So prepare yourselves, because this is only the beginning. :] 
> 
> Also my Yamato headcanons are starting to spill all over the place and I'm excited to share them!! You can expect some substantial deviations from the Deadly Fortune novel, as I wrote and imagined most of this before seeking out what was in it. A lot is basically similar but not quite the same though.


	22. Twenty Missing Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil and Nero discover Agnus's lab underground storing chamber, and its content awakens to Vergil's presence.

Twenty majestic white armours waited for them below.

The elevator-like apparatus had stopped in the middle of another circular room lit by flickering electricals above, and along its wall rested armour stands with the full Order of the Sword gear, long lances held proudly before them. It felt like twenty pair of eyes stared at them from these empty helmets, their gaze piercing, judging. Vergil lifted the Yamato ever-so-slightly, sensing low aura of demonic power from them. 

As he did, twenty armours creaked alive, tearing themselves away from their stand. By his side, Nero scoffed and brought Red Queen to bear with a flourish. 

“ _Ding ding ding!_ We hit the full Fortuna Castle jackpot here!” 

And he was off, angry determination pouring from him as he rushed the first armour, blazing sword striking clean through before it had even lifted its lance or shield. As the armour collapsed to the ground, Vergil felt the strike deep within, a sudden painful pull at his core, and he almost stumbled from the shock of it. Armours. Animated armours. He knew what those were, knew what animated them, what Nero had just destroyed.

What he was about to strike down again, if Vergil let him. 

Nero jumped up, wings spreading behind him to help him soar higher, twisting midair to come bearing down on the large armour from behind, the Red Queen’s blade still bright and fiery. Vergil dashed after him, pinching space and time as he ran, warping his body halfway between his fast-descending son and the armour to which his soul was clinging, below. Nero’s eyes went wide as he reappeared, the Yamato catching Red Queen, and they both crashed on top of the armour, landing hard but neither losing their balance. 

“What the fuck, asshole?”

“Don’t--” How could he explain this? Already, the armour was moving beneath their feet, struggling to rise as the others closed in. He needed to think this through, but with Nero tearing these armours to pieces, he’d never have the chance. “These are Bianco Angelos, are they not?”

“Yeah.” He pushed hard against the Yamato, wings flaring at his back like a warning. “What, ya want the field notes before we rip them to shreds? What’s up with you? They’re just demons shoved in an armour.”

“If only,” Vergil started, but three armours rushed them, lance set forth, forcing Nero and him to disengage and leap backward. Vergil slid the Yamato back in its scabbard as enemies turned to him, but before they could attack, two shimmering blue arms grabbed the armour and sent them flying above his head, to crash into the Bianco Angelos behind him. 

Nero stalked forward, glaring. “Explain yourself.”

A new wave of demonic armour rushed in, giving them no time to discuss this. In truth, Vergil was glad for the distraction. He caught one lance with the Yamato, slapping it away before jumping up and using the armour’s shoulders as a springboard. The Bianco Angelos were slow and predictable, but with so many of them, Vergil barely ever stopped moving, chaining jumps and rolls between multiple parries, either with the sheathed Yamato or his summoned swords. 

Nero used his demon arms to devastating effect, grabbing a lance and swinging an armour around him, creating a wide circle empty of threats for a time. When he flung the armour away, he aimed it at those swinging for Vergil, giving him a brief reprieve. “I’m not hearing anything!”

“Just trust me!” Vergil called back, and he felt immediately pathetic for it; he would’ve sneered at such an asinine request.

Gunshots exploded in the chamber as Nero blew a lance to pieces before punching the armour that had held it in the chest, hard and fast. “It’s not about trust, dumbass! These things won’t tire before we do, and I’m not getting pierced by another of these fuckers.”

It _was_ a legitimate concern. Killing these armours did not constitute an effort, but keeping them at bay for a prolonged length of time might turn into a significant challenge. Not that it required a large allocation of his brain space--Vergil could deflect the strikes or hop back to dodge without even thinking about it, his body moving on reflex, instincts, and years of training. But if he wanted these armours to survive the encounter, then he needed to make them stop.

Vergil sidestepped another lance and rushed in, spreading his fingers on the chestpiece, staring down at the armour, and sent a blast of demon power against it. Sheer manifestations of power had never been his strength, however--he preferred finesse, and striking where it hurt-- and while the armour stumbled back, it quickly tried to smash Vergil’s head, forcing him to dodge back out of the way. 

Well, it had been worth a try. Some lesser demons could be made to submit through sheer force of will, and while he was no such pathetic creature, these souls were only a fraction of him, from a time he _had_ submitted. But Vergil had fought Mundus every step of the way, and clearly some of his stubborn pride had remained even through Nelo Angelo. He pushed the memories away. Now was not the time to linger on how Mundus had eventually gotten him: not through brute force, but by the slow torturous grind of corruption, and the promise of his amulet’s--ah!

Vergil’s hand snapped to Dante’s half of the amulet, his heart hammering, and he lifted it over his neck, removing it in a deft movement as he jumped back towards the center of the room, where most animated armours would see him. It was a foolish idea, a hunch without rationale, but he thrust his hand up nevertheless, fingers wrapped tight around the red gem while he pointed the still-sheathed Yamato at the closest Bianco Angelo and cast his voice out.

“Cease and submit!”

His order became a shockwave passing through the demons, stopping them short. They all turned to him, nineteen synchronic armours spinning on themselves, locking eyes with him again… then setting the tip of their lance to the ground, bending their head in obedience. Vergil remained in the center, his chest heaving and his mind ringing. They _were_ him, as Nelo Angelo, prepared to do anything for the one memento he’d still had. Vergil’s throat tightened, and he found himself wishing it hadn’t worked at all.

****

###

****

Fortuna Castle had always been enshrined in Nero’s mind as the ultimate Bullshit Central, but Vergil straight up ordering the Bianco Angelos to stop fighting and _having it work_ was breaking all of his mental records. The fucker just stood there, in the middle of the room, holding an amulet up like a fucking magical girl with a talisman, and it was just _too much_ for Nero. He was getting his explanation, and he was getting it now. 

“All right, no, fuck that,” he said, pushing past multiple armours to stomp his way to Vergil. The man tilted his chin up, his mouth a thin line, but he didn’t look at Nero, only stared pointedly over his shoulder as he resheathed the Yamato. “Like hell you just command demons now. Is this some Demon King leftover?”

The hint of a smirk curled Vergil’s lips and he swept his gaze across the armours. “Ah, wouldn’t that be amazing, if the Qliphoth had given me such power over all demons?”

“No, it fucking would not.” Nero was a fraction of a second away from grabbing Vergil, and only the high possibility this would get nineteen Bianco Angelo diving on his ass stopped him. “What the fuck is it, then?”

Vergil’s gaze flicked back to him, and for a moment the anguish was plain in his face, easily readable despite Vergil’s obvious efforts to keep it all contained. Maybe Nero was just getting better at reading past the tightened jaws, cold gaze, and fake confidence… or maybe Vergil was as fucking put off by the Bianco Angelos obeying him as Nero was. Whatever it was, the quick glimpse of truth made it easy to hear the brittleness of his calm tone as he explained.

“According to Nico, these are animated through pieces of a demon named Nelo Angelo--”

“Shit, isn’t that you?” Nero interrupted, and the intensity of Vergil’s glare was all the confirmation he needed. “Are bits of your soul scattered across the whole damn world, old man?”

Vergil flinched--actually _flinched_ , the disciplined motherfucker--and Nero kinda regretted the question. 

"I certainly hope not," Vergil said, his voice tight and controlled. He lowered the amulet, then, and nineteen helmets jerked up all at once, their non-existent gaze clearly fixed on Vergil. He stared right back, like he had some shitty staring contest going on with them. "But these are mine."

Something in the way he said "mine" kicked off all of Nero's alerts--like he had a plan for them. Nero's wings flared out behind him and he fell back one step, bringing Red Queen up. All of this bullshit had layers of wrong and creepy, and Vergil's tone had lined up too perfectly with it all. He was too different, too easy to read, and Nero hated it. “You ain’t building a demon army out of your fucked up soul.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped Vergil. "Absolutely not, no. These are abominations-- _my_ soul forced into another body." He slid on foot back, wrapped the amulet around his wrist, and returned both hands to the Yamato’s grip, shifting into a fighting stance. “Nero, when I am finished, I may require assistance.”

“Finished with what?” Nero lowered Red Queen with a scowl. “What are you gonna do?”

“I shall reclaim what’s mine,” he said, his tone hollow, his expression of anguish brutally buried under sheer determination.

A burst of demonic energy washed out of Vergil and a visible pulsing blue sphere engulfed the small room. The soft whisper of the Yamato sliding out of its sheath reached Nero, distorted and wrong, then Vergil himself vanished. It only lasted a second, yet to Nero it seemed to stretch on, an eternity of worrying about Vergil’s haunted expression, the unyielding and cold anger in his voice, the warning he might need help afterward. What did he even mean, ‘reclaiming what was mine’? How the fuck did this asshole think he could do that?

Vergil reappeared with a stumble, still clutching both amulet and sword, and the blue sphere resorbed into him. Burning blue lines shimmered across the nineteen Bianco Angelo, some of them clean and precise, others looking increasingly sloppy. They fell apart as Vergil set a knee to the ground, panting, holding himself up with the Yamato’s scabbard. Nero’s chest squeezed painfully and he took a step forward.

“Are you al--”

Chunks of flying armour interrupted his question, flying from the defeated Bianco Angelos and snapping onto Vergil, arms and pauldrons and legs, tearing a confused and pained “ _What--_ ” out of him. Then a chest piece hit him hard and fast, launching him back, and he dropped the amulet from the shock.

“Vergil!” Nero called, running after his father as he skidded and rolled on the floor.

Deep demonic energy was rolling out of him again and the chunks of armour attached to him grew darker. Even Vergil’s skin seemed to turn a pale, purplish hue, and, fuck, that couldn’t be good. Not good at all. Nero hovered above him, his hand going to Red Queen, then Blue Rose, then back to Red Queen, but shit, there was nothing to shoot or stab, and what the fuck was he supposed to do? Pain contorted Vergil’s face, and he scraped his fingers--claws, now, really, his arms halfway shifted into his demon form--on the stone floor, one leg kicking, his body arching.

“No…” Vergil’s voice seemed to come from so far away, full of cracked echoes and pain. “I’m… my own--You’re mine…” One of his hands flew to his neck, grasping at the emptiness there, and for an instant the agony in his expression smoothed, replaced by determination. “Cease and submit.”

His voice was almost normal just then, a command Nero had heard a handful of minutes before. His gaze snapped to the amulet lying in the middle of the room, and he snatched it with his wing-arm. The red gem almost seemed to shine with a light of its own, and Nero wished he had time to inspect it. Instead, he kneeled by Vergil and forced it into the man’s half-formed claws, using his demon arm to keep the grip steady and firm.

“C’mon, asshole… You got this.”

A long, ragged breath tore itself out of Vergil’s lungs. “Nero…”

Fuck, but there was _longing_ in the way he said his name. Nero’s throat tightened, and after a moment of hesitation, he placed a hand on the darkened armour. “Yeah dad. I’m right here.”

Pieces of the armour started shimmering a dark, swirling blue, and Nero gritted his teeth for more bullshit, at a loss about what to do about it. He hated this, hated being so powerless at doing anything--what if it went south, and he couldn’t stop it? Frustration and helplessness welled within him and he gripped tighter, fighting against the way his hands shook, swearing to himself he wouldn’t let it happen.

When the first of them just straight up _melted_ into Vergil, Nero cursed and reached for another chunk. He’d tear all these fucking pieces off by hand if he had to! But his fingers slid right through, and so did his demon arm when he tried that, and before he could figure out a third idea, the whole armour was shining. Nero jerked back, but Vergil’s grip on the amulet and Nero's blue demon hand tightened, holding him fast. 

The light grew blinding, then vanished entirely, leaving only Vergil behind, panting, out of his armour and with his skin back to an ashen pink, blue eyes fixed on the ceiling for a brief instant, before he closed them and let the hand clutching the amulet fall to the ground, still holding it.

“Well,” he said, and the haughty amusement in his voice sent a wave of relief through Nero. “That was… interesting.”

Now that Vergil seemed all right, Nero's earlier wave of confused panic crystallized into anger. “Yeah, what the fuck?”

Except Vergil didn’t respond. He’d closed his eyes again, and when Nero pushed his leg with the tip of his foot, he got no reaction. Had he just fallen asleep? What kind of asshole almost transformed himself into some freakish dark knight and then took a fucking nap? His _dad_ , apparently, damnit.

Nero huffed, then sat down. He'd probably wake up soon, with his fancy demon healing and all. Just… a… few… minutes… Nero tapped his foot on the ground, then stretched out. Still no movement. He got Blue Rose out and started disassembling the parts that didn't require tools, checking everything was still good even though Nico forced him to do regular maintenance. Vergil let out a low sound, half grunt and half moan. Didn't look pleasant.

"You awake, asshole?" Nero asked.

No response. So, okay, maybe he wasn't about to wake up. Nero reached back, sliding his arm into the iBreaker, and tapped the Devil May Cry van shortcut. It took Nico quite a few rings to answer, and when she did, her hair was soaking wet and the camera had been tilted up so he barely saw more than half her head. Naked in the van again, huh?

"That's our office," he said. "Get dressed."

"When I feel like it, sure." She grinned at him. "You can't see shit so stop complaining. What's up?"

Nero rolled his eyes but shut it. She'd pranced around like this just to annoy him if he insisted. "Gonna need the van at the bridge. And… clear the couch, will ya?" He pulled the camera screen up and flipped it towards Vergil. "My old man's taking a nap."

Nico whistled. "Must have been some rough demons huh? You got it, my lil' bitch, I'm coming right in with the geriatric van.”

The demons hadn’t exactly been the problem, but Nero let it go and cut the communication before Nico forgot she was butt-naked and moved around the van. Fuck, but this had been an exhausting evening. He kinda wish he could pull a Vergil and just fall asleep there and then. Instead, Nero pushed himself to his feet, walked to his father, and picked him up with his two demon arms, cradling Vergil so the amulet wouldn’t be hanging. Not that there was any risk of him dropping it, with the way he clung to it. Once certain everything was secure, he walked back to the strange elevator and started his way out of Fortuna Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magical Girl Vergil is best Vergil. ;P
> 
> If any of you thought I was going to let that little "Bianco Angelos are actually animated specifically by Vergil's soul, not just built with his armour" headcanon go to waste, you've yet to understand the depths of mean-to-Vergil I can reach haha. :] I've been waiting for these two Fortuna Castle chapters for *so long*, I'm excited they're both posted now!!
> 
> Oi, and way back when Vergil and Nero had their hamburger lunch, someone commented about how they couldn't wait for Nero to use "dad" instead of father? Here you go, friend!


	23. Mementos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil wakes up back in the Devil May Cry van, discovers the extent of the whiplash from recovering pieces of his soul, and finds Nero already training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to deal with the fallout of that little expedition. S'not like emotions run high or anything!

Stepping into the van was like stepping into a goddamn sauna, and Nero cursed Nico’s long showers for turning this place into an unlivable hot spot. His coat clung to his arms and back, and in the minute it took him to stride to the long couch, he was convinced Vergil was sticking to him. He set him down slowly and leaned back against the table. Nico hovered above his shoulders.

“So… what knocked him out?”

“Fuck if I know,” Nero answered. “I think he’s fusing back pieces of his soul together or some bullshit, but he didn’t really explain shit.”

“Fortuna Castle still a fun ride, huh?” She threw an arm around him, leaning way more heavily than necessary, and he knew that was her way of saying ‘I got you’, so he let her.

“A real gift that keeps on giving, yeah.” A cool breeze drifted from the open door, clearing some of the stuffy air. “Let’s get some windows open.”

They opened everything they could, then Nero collapsed into a chair, across from Vergil, while Nico went out to smoke. He was feeling completely wrung out from the expedition, and it was playing tricks on his mind. They’d talked so much about the Yamato and his old arm, he could feel the skin on his regrown human arm buzzing, a sneaky sensation that only returned when he hit rock-bottom exhaustion. Nero flexed it, half expecting it to turn black and scaly and shine blue again, then sighed and let it flop. Even with his newfound power, he found it hard not to mourn the vanished Bringer.

His gaze slid to the Yamato, hanging off the couch, still tied at Vergil’s waist. That sword had meant the world to him. As a proof of Dante’s trust and respect, most of all, but also because it had saved his life and granted him the power to save Kyrie’s. Between the dream-like conversation and the ghostly figure fighting with him, an extension of himself, the Yamato had always felt sentient--a trusted friend right there, in his arm, where it could always back him up. To hear Vergil imply it might actually have a mind of its own had felt like a stab in his stomach. He missed the goddamn sword, and now he couldn’t help but wonder if he could bring the apparition back, and if he did, how much like his own father it’d be.

Ugh. Too many questions. He hated when he got like this, turning things over in his head again and again. It never did anything but make him feel like shit, angry or anxious or full of guilt. Or for today, hot and sweaty and wistful. Nero peeled off his coat and flung it over the driver’s seat, feeling immediately better for the cool breeze now on his arms and neck. He outta grab a beer and settle down.

But then he glanced at Vergil, still fully dressed, sweat beading along his neck and temples, his white hair flattened and drooping from the pain earlier and the current stuffy heat, and he sighed. He couldn’t just leave him like that. Besides, he undressed Dante all the time when the old goof got too drunk, so this wasn’t so different. 

Except it totally was. Dante--especially drunk Dante--loved to touch people. He was all shoulder slaps and hugs and booping noses, getting into Nero's space without hesitation and letting others into his just as openly. Not to mention he spent half his life bare chested, and he was an uncle and a mentor, trusted and easy to love. By comparison, Vergil was… harder to love. Aloof and closed off, only opening in rare circumstances, in ways that either brought joy or rage to Nero. He never knew what to expect of the damn asshole, and he felt like every time he let his guard down, Vergil made him pay. And on top of all that, he clearly disliked to be touched. 

Undressing Dante was just a thing he did to make his uncle more comfortable. Undressing Vergil felt like a minefield and a violation, and Nero almost gave up before he'd started. Then he looked at him again, pale and sweaty and clearly uncomfortable, and he set to work with a sigh.

Nero used his demon arms as much as he could, as if touching Vergil with those was less of an imposition, and he set his father upright. The movement drew a grunt of pain out of him, and Nero flinched. Carefully, one demon arm holding Vergil steady, he pulled at the deep blue coat’s sleeves and extricated Vergil’s arms from it before removing it entirely, leaving only the sleeveless black shirt under. Nero then pick Vergil’s hands and started on the gloves, only to startle as he touched Vergil’s skin with his own, actual fingers. It was _cold_ , like a body long dead and left in a fridge, and it sent a chill down Nero’s spine. His heart hammering, Nero touched Vergil’s arms, then very briefly his forehead, and despite the sweat on them, the skin remained eerily cold.

Fuck, but he hated this. Vergil wasn’t usually that chill. He disliked being touched, but it had happened often enough that Nero would’ve noticed. This had to do with whatever was happening to him, and now Nero wasn’t sure removing the coat had been a good idea at all, or if he should continue. But it _was_ stuffingly hot in the van still, and Vergil _was_ sweating, so he went through with it, pulling off both gloves before removing his high boots and socks. Once he had everything, he gently returned Vergil’s amulet back around his neck, lowered him on the couch, then stared at his handiwork.

Something was still wrong. Ah, yes… he removed the Yamato, stomping down the longing welling up inside of him as he grasped the sword’s scabbard, then placed it on the table. But… that hadn’t been it. There was still something horribly off about Vergil, and Nero couldn’t place his finger on what.

Then he realized his hair was still down, bangs partly covering his eyes and cheeks in a way that was strikingly reminiscent of Dante with shorter hair. Of course. Feeling completely, utterly silly, Nero reached out and very slowly ran his fingers through the hair, pushing it back up so that it’d stay out of Vergil’s face. That was more like it. His hand lingered for a moment, then he snatched it back as if the hair had burned him.

“There. Now you look like an asshole again,” he said, grinning.

Then he grabbed the Yamato and hurried outside, before he got caught worrying too much.

 

###

 

The cool breeze tickling his toes was the first thing Vergil registered upon waking up. The sensation, though strange, was pleasant--a gentle reminder that he was alive, somehow, and that regaining consciousness didn’t signify a return to pain, to a broken body and mind, to the taste of defeat coursing through him, as poisonous as Mundus’s more direct corruption. It was over, though the memory of it clung to him now, revived through nineteen broken fragments, and every inch of Vergil’s body felt leaden by exhaustion.

He allowed himself time to breathe, to soak himself in the way his skin stuck to the fabric next to it, the subtle hints of cigarette smoke in the air and the familiar notes of Nico’s jukebox. The van, then. Safe. Vergil cracked his eyes open and stared at the yellowed ceiling, slowly piecing back together the events that had led him here.

Every Bianco Angelo he'd destroyed, exerting his will on the Yamato so that it’d split his soul out of it, had felt like a cut through himself. It had taken him everything to get through them while maintaining the time freeze, but the Yamato had shone with a stronger blue light after each hit, the sight cheering him on. He'd had no idea if it worked--if those pieces of him were returning where they belonged, or even in the Yamato, or if they'd been destroyed--but he'd _had_ to try. Only, the attempt had left him ragged, and then the first chunk of armour had hit him.

The rest was nothing but searing agony and the pressing conviction that he ought to stop fighting, that if he only _submitted_ , it'd all vanish. A life of obedience as a powerful demon. Those pieces of him wanted to continue as they were, as Nelo Angelo, and for a brief moment he had been so overwhelmed, he could barely fight against their combined will.

But the rest of him remembered: he wasn't a demon, not only. He was human, too, and humans never gave up. He hadn't found his way to a new life to cede it to dregs of himself, especially not when a wonderful son was waiting for him.

He’d woken up with Dante's amulet clutched in his hands and Nero hovering nearby. He knew he'd forced words out past his exhaustion, just to prove he was fine. But after that? Nothing. Had he… had he simply collapsed there, too tired to even stay awake? If so, Nero would have had to carry him to the van.

Vergil’s heart raced and he pushed himself up at the thought. Every muscle protested at the sudden movement--not in pain, really, yet the simple act of sitting up demanded tremendous energy out of him, and for a time he stayed there, dazed and hollowed out by the effort, as if his own body couldn’t believe it’d been asked to move. Vergil stared at his toes as he wiggled them, then at his bare arms and hands. Nero hadn’t only brought him back, he’d--

A deep flush crawled up Vergil’s neck as memories of Nero gently preparing Dante for bed returned. He’d watched from the staircase, throat tight from the sollicitude of it--how his son, for all his bluster and insults and posturing, just couldn’t dump his drunken uncle in his bed and be done with it. He’d thought--at the time, he had been jealous, certain he’d never elicit the kind of easy love Dante did and that led to this. It seemed he had been wrong, although perhaps worry had driven Nero more than love. Vergil wasn’t about to ask, so he’d have to live with his doubts.

Slowly, despite the groaning protests of his body, Vergil pushed himself off the couch and padded his way towards the van’s open doors. He kept a hand on the wall as he moved, alarmed by how difficult each step turned out to be, how unresponsive his entire being felt. Perhaps it had been a mistake to force these souls back into himself. But, no… Once, he’d thought he would be a better, more powerful version of himself by shedding off all he considered weak and inconvenient. Being V had taught him that every bit mattered, and if parts of his soul still existed in this world, detached from him, then he would reclaim them all, no matter how broken. It would work out. He just… needed these to settle in. Probably. He hoped. In truth, he had no idea what he was doing, and it was best for everyone if he did not waste time acknowledging it. 

He found Nico immediately upon stepping outside, sitting on a folding chair by the van, tinkering with one of Nero’s Devil Breakers by the neon’s light. She didn’t look up from her work as he sat down, fingers tight around the doorway to keep himself steady, but he’d barely set his bare feet on the cold ground before she talked. 

“Feelin’ better, V-man?”

“Absolutely not.” He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, and it was like he could feel every line of tension in his back. “It feels like I’m one wrong move from falling apart.”

Nico snort-laughed, clamped something with her screwdriver, and then finally looked up. “That’s just old age. Gosh, you’re gonna make a grumpy pappi, aren’t you?”

It was not a question he had ever considered. Death had dogged him all his life, and growing old had never truly entered his mind as a distinct possibility before today. It was an unsettling thought, and he ignored it in favour of his surroundings. Fortuna Castle still loomed over them, and Nico had evidently driven the van as close as she could. The entry’s bridge was right ahead of the van, on his right, and before them spread a tiny green space. Nero was in there, training a good distance away, half concealed by the night’s shadow.

“He carried me back, did he not?”

“You bet. Was kinda cute, too--here, hold that for a sec.” She dumped the devil breaker in his hands without waiting for his agreement, then retrieved her cellphone from a back pocket. A few finger-swipes later, and she was taking back the breaker and tools, instead shoving her brightly-lit screen in his hands. “Look. Photo proof so he can’t deny it!”

And what a photo it was. Vergil almost dropped the phone from it.

Nero was striding out of Fortuna Castle's main gate, the structure's spires looming behind him and obscuring most of the sky. His two demon arms cut a striking figure in the ambient darkness, shining blue wings cradling Vergil’s limp body over his chest. The Yamato hung at Vergil’s waist, its scabbard a stark black line in all the blue, but even with the weapon, he looked… small--vulnerable. His heart pounding, Vergil touched his fingers to the screen and clumsily zoomed in. Nero’s moonlit face was awash with grim determination, his icy blue eyes staring straight ahead, as if he refused to look down, to even consider what or who he was carrying. By comparison, Vergil himself… His face was more difficult to catch, half-hidden by Nero's translucent blue arms, but in the strange light they cast, he looked _peaceful_ , like he knew it was safe to rest.

And it had been, even there in the middle of Fortuna Castle. He had surrounded himself with people more than capable of handling most demons thrown their way, people who wouldn’t betray him if he let his guard down, and even now, almost two months after returning from Hell, the reality of it still stunned him.

“It’s good, huh?” Nico asked.

“A work of art,” Vergil replied, his lips quirking into a half-smile. Nico had been fishing for a compliment, and now she had one, but she’d know he’d seen her maneuver by his choice of words. She only laughed, not so easily shamed.

“You said it, V-man!”

He forced his gaze away from the picture, back to Nero, training in the distance. “It remains strange, to see myself on screens.” Their father had sworn only through paintings, and it was impossible enough to have Dante pose for any length of time that they’d only had the one family portrait.

“You just gotta look at more of ‘em.” She gestured to her phone, and added, “Feel free. I sorted through the porn yesterday, so it’s all safe!”

Vergil’s brain stuttered first at the casual mention of porn, then at what Nico’s offer implied. “You have _more_? Of me?”

“What, ya think I’d have spared ya? No one escapes Nico’s photo ops!” She mimed taking a picture on older cameras, mimicked the sound with her mouth, then returned to her work on the devil breaker. “Used to be, I only used pics as references for the tiny little pieces on shit I built, but bein’ around our two lovebirds changed that. They wouldn’t believe how sappy cute they looked, so I had to prove it!” 

Vergil struggled to imagine anything softer than the way Nero and Kyrie looked at each other. It had been a shock, the first time, that Nero would so obviously display his love, and it had taken Vergil everything not to scold him. He was painting a target on Kyrie’s back with it, and it grated him, but they both seemed quite aware of the danger.

While Nico tinkered with the breaker, Vergil hesitantly started through her gallery. The one before featured Nero snapping his choice of breakers to his belt, right before they’d left, with Vergil in the background, his slightly impatient frown all too easy to read. Most of the pictures weren’t even remotely tied to devil hunting, however. Vergil swiped through a constellation of snapshots from his life over the last weeks:

Nero buried under three kids eager to welcome him home, his blue wings holding Ticho steady on his head while Julio clung to his chest like a small monkey and Amelia hugged what space her foster brothers had left available.

Kyrie placing butterfly clips in Julio’s hair, her tongue slightly out from concentrating so hard, the afternoon light turning her hair almost fiery red.

Vergil, sitting at the kitchen table with his sleeves rolled up, his accounting books spread on the table, his forlorn expression almost comical, and his hair dishevelled from the amount of time he’d ran a hand through backward to forward.

Amelia, dashing past Nero with her ball, grinning, her knees bloodied from one too many fall, her brown eyes shining with determination.

Nero, wrapping his arms around Kyrie’s waist from behind and placing a kiss at the base of her neck, after he ostensibly sneaked up on her doing the dishes, his own hair and clothes still dirty from the latest hunt.

Ticho, climbing into Vergil’s lap, brandishing his favourite book while Vergil rolled his eyes, his own reading interrupted for good.

Nero and him, swords locked together in the courtyard, the hot sun and sparring leaving them both sweaty--Nero smirking, obviously in the middle of a taunt, while Vergil remained impassive, his focus entirely on the fight.

All these pictures… Nico had an eye for lightning and framing, a way to capture them that felt candid and truthful. And now that truth was staring right back at Vergil, and even though he wasn’t smiling on any of these pictures, he knew what it said: he was happy here, as a part of these people’s lives, and the only thing missing from the diaporama was Dante.

Something snapped in the breaker, drawing him out of his daze, and Nico muttered a curse against Nero and his carelessness. She removed an entire panel to get a better look at the circuitry. 

“I can send the best ones to you, if you’d like. Kyrie never thinks of taking any--I think she’s got too much on her mind--but she _loves_ the tiny album she has of Credo, Nero and her. Not much else left to remember her brother by, y’know? People don’t realize how important mementos are until they got nothing else.”

Vergil’s thoughts flew to the portrait of his mother on Dante’s desk, then to the familiar weight around his neck, and all he had sacrificed for it. “I do.”

Once, the amulet’s value to him had laid almost entirely in its demonic power and its significance in Sparda’s history, but he remembered his very first fight with Dante, a year before the Temen-ni-gru, and how… attached to his amulet his twin had been, even without knowledge of its true power. Dante had loved the memento, had demanded to have it back, even clearly defeated, and something in his voice had swayed Vergil. He couldn’t summon the tower just yet, anyway, and it had felt wrong to deprive his brother of his half until he truly required it. They had lost too much already.

A flash of blue caught Vergil’s attention, and he tore his gaze from Nico’s pictures, distractedly handing her back her phone as he found Nero, farther down a gentle slope and training in the clearing. The light hadn’t been his wings--it’d been too brief, too slim--but it _had_ been familiar, and as Vergil looked on, he realized Nero wasn’t training with just any weapon: he’d taken the Yamato.

Alarm briefly flashed through Vergil at the sight--it was his sword, his inheritance, _his soul_ \--and if not for the exhaustion hollowing him out, he would’ve jumped to his feet. Instead, his hands clenched into a fist and he tried to reason with his own possessiveness. _Nero_ held it. He was his son. The sword had recognized him and saved his life, and it was responding to him, even now, allowing him to create shuriken-like summoned blades. If the Yamato didn’t mind… 

“I bet Red Queen’s super dejected right now,” Nico commented. “I ain’t seen Nero train so seriously with her in goddamn ages.”

Perhaps he should. The more Vergil watched, and the more something irked him about Nero’s movements. The boy’s fighting had always been instinct and anger more than discipline, and now that he held the Yamato, the lack of technique was striking.

“His form is wrong,” he said.

He pushed himself up, groaning at the brutal strain the simple act inflicted on him. He hoped a night of sleep would restore his usual energy, gritted his teeth against the soul-deep fatigue, and started bare-footed towards Nero. Every step turned into a struggle, like part of him was fighting him, determined not to obey, and Vergil needed brutal willpower to force it to. He stopped only a few feet behind Nero, surprised to have gone unnoticed, and gathered his strength to keep his voice steady.

“If you’re going to use my sword, at least use it right.”

Nero jerked in surprise, then spun on his feet and pointed the Yamato at him, keeping the tip an inch away from his nose. Vergil looked past the gold-and-blue pommel, down the length of the beautiful blade, and met his son’s glare.

“Let me guess,” Nero countered, “the only right way is yours.”

“Of course not. Many fighting styles have been perfected through time, but your… swinging around… fits none of them.” Vergil had spent years studying traditional Japanese styles; he’d know if Nero even vaguely tried to emulate any of them. The comment earned him a scowl, but before his son could argue, he continued. “You’re holding a respectable weapon, created by Sparda and passed down through our family, one visibly possessed of something akin to sentience, and you cannot treat it as you do your engineered-motor sword.”

“Red Queen says fuck you,” Nero retorted, almost in a growl. “Remember when I used her to kick your ass? I know how to fight.”

Vergil set the back of his hand against the Yamato’s cold steel and gently pushed it aside. “Not with this sword, no.”

Nero responded with an angry swing, which was the least surprising reaction of their short time knowing each other, and Vergil reached for his summoned sword to catch Yamato. Except nothing shimmered into existence, not even the faintest blue light, and the attempt left his skull buzzing. The Yamato nicked his forearm, and he was grateful for the combination of exhaustion and discipline which allowed him to remain perfectly still as a drop of blood trickled from the wound. Nero stared at him, clearly stunned he hadn’t dodged or parried somehow.

“I’m not here to battle,” Vergil said, omitting the fact that he was in no state to do so and silently hoping Nero wouldn’t know enough about his healing to have noticed it took ten seconds too long for that cut to close up. “I’m offering to teach you.”

Nero lowered Yamato a bit, his eyes widening. “You-- _what_?”

The strangled question was packed with too many feelings for Vergil to know how to deal with it. He tensed, half turning away, uncertain he could meet Nero’s eyes right now. It was _his_ sword--it had been with him for most of his life, and he’d want it back but… loathe as he was to admit it, Dante had had good instincts, leaving it with his son. Very slowly, his eyes still fixed on one of Fortuna Castle’s spires, he tried to explain.

“The Yamato chose you, too, did it not?” he asked, casting the question out almost like an accusation. His throat was tight, he was swimming in feelings he struggled to identify and name, exhausted from his previous stunt with the Bianco Angelos, and a part of him screamed for him to stop, to just shut up and snatch the sword back and retreat in the van, cold and aloof, never thinking or speaking of this evening again. Instead, he forged on. “My _son_ should honour this through proper training.”

In the following silence, Nero’s heavy breaths thundered in Vergil’s ears, in sync with his hammering heart, and the hitch of a swallowed--sob? insult?--reverberated through his bones. Something crackled through the air, invisible and oppressive. _Power_ , he realized too late, and he snapped his attention back to Nero just as the Yamato flared to life and a familiar blue demonic shape stretched out behind his son. It _did_ look remarkably like him--all sweeping horns and sharp cheekbones, but with elements of Nero’s own devil form to it--Vergil thought, as the apparition balled its clawed hands into fists and punched him hard and fast.

On any other day, he would’ve dodged that, or caught the fist and held steady, or even taken the hit and rolled back up to his feet smoothly. Instead, the punch slammed into him, and he in turn slammed into the ground, scraping his bare arms as he skidded off for several meters. His gaze met the moon briefly as his roll came to a stop, but the sight was immediately obscured by a translucent blue demon, then Nero’s angry scowl.

“Don’t fuck with me!” Nero’s distorted voice was echoed by another, so similar to Vergil’s.

Nero punched again, but this time Vergil caught the fist with his two hands. The shock spread down his arms until his elbows hit the ground hard, and he would’ve sworn every bone and muscle in them was about to snap from the strength of the blow. Worse than the physical pain was the confusion at Nero’s anger, though--the terrifying possibility he might have finally broken something beyond repair and not even understand what.

“Nero,” he said, his voice strangled by fear and physical strain. "The Yamato is--" 

Breath ran out on him. His arms were burning now, and he knew he wouldn't hold for long, and somehow it felt like if that fist connected it would be the end of his world. There was nothing rational to it--no more, he figured, than Nero's sudden attack--but it did not prevent panic from rising within him, nor the accompanying certitude that he was, in truth, powerless to stop the hit and keep this frail relationship from shattering.

"Please," he gasped. "I beg you, Nero--"

The pressure released instantly, the blue figure dissipating into thin air. The Yamato clang to the ground, and Nero followed, as if he, too, had been drained of all his energy. Vergil caught him by the shoulders before he fell upon him and for a moment he thought Nero had lost consciousness, but blue eyes soon met his, half glazed over.

"You… You’re…" Nero didn't finish, and Vergil felt his entire body tense, ready to roll away. So he held onto him tighter, squeezing Nero's shoulders. 

"I am always serious when the Yamato is concerned."

He could feel the tension wash out of Nero under his fingers, undoing the painful knots in his own stomach, and the intense relief was almost enough to make him pull the much younger man into a hug. Almost.

The second of hesitation was enough for Nero to peel himself away, flinging himself to the side and laying on the ground next to him, panting.

“All right,” he said, sounding exhausted and stunned still.

They both stared at the moon, partly obscured by clouds, silent for a time. Vergil let his arms rest on his chest and tried to ignore how they still shook from the exertion--how his entire body refused to brush off the brief fight as it should.

“You didn’t fight back,” Nero said, putting a gargantuan hole in Vergil’s plan not to think about it.

He hesitated. This was the kind of information he ought to keep private, at least until he knew more or could explain what was happening. Nero didn’t need to know. And yet… “I could not.”

Nero scowled and propped himself on his elbow, to glare down at Vergil. “Stop mocking me, asshole.”

“I assure you, I am not.” Vergil inhaled deeply and struggled back into a sitting position, forcing his muscles to work. It still didn’t hurt, only felt like Vergil’s demands on his own body were exceeding its capacity. 

Nero let out a sharp whistle. “I could practically hear your bones creaking, old man.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, child,” Vergil replied. “One good night of rest and we’ll once more need a microscope to detect your chances of winning.”

Nero snorted and punched his shoulder. “Keep wishing.”

The familiar banter brought them both back to a calmer, steadier place. Not enough for Vergil to turn around and look at Nero, though, not when he could still feel the sharp fear of having destroyed their precarious relationship so clearly. He closed his eyes, trying to absorb the night’s quiet, the balance they’d slowly regained.

When Nero shifted next to him, he didn’t think much of it--not until a weight settled against his side, and he realized Nero was _leaning_ on him. His heart slammed hard in his chest and his throat tightened, but he held on tight to that casual warmth.

“Hey Vergil,” Nero said, and he leaned a little harder, like he was resting his head on him. “Tell me if I gotta move, right?”

“And ruin the picture Nico is assuredly taking now?” he asked.

Nero groaned, but he didn’t move. “Great.” 

A beat of silence. Nothing but the wind circling around the castle and the nearby trees rustling with it. Truly, Vergil could have stayed there all night, his son leaning against him, his battered bones resting. Nero did not have the patience.

“You better get back on your feet quick, old man, ‘cause I’m only letting you train me in anything if you can beat me.”

A sharp, surprised laugh escaped Vergil. He had to earn the right to train Nero, now? He’d be insulted, if not for the warmth swirling inside of him. Maybe that was fair, after decades of absence--after ripping his arm off for the katana. Where Nero was concerned, Vergil didn’t mind having to earn anything.

“You’ll be a master in no time, then.”

Nero ribbed him hard, and Vergil had to stifle a groan, lest he get called an old man again, after which they settled back into a comfortable silence. Nico wisely left them alone, though he had no doubt she’d be prying about what happened all the way back to Fortuna proper. For now, Vergil allowed himself to think of nothing but the quiet serenity filling him, and his hopes Nero would let it last long enough that he wouldn’t need help getting back on his feet after they finally moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The father and son bonding keeps going, except this time it kind of took a turn for the worse. Oopsie. If you're wondering what the heck is going on through Nero's head, he'll eventually narrate it, so just hang on. XD


	24. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil's recovery definitely does -not- happen overnight, and he provides Nero with some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're taking a stab at the lore that underlies some of this fiction ~
> 
> Plus, it's soft Nerokiri hours <3

When Vergil still struggled to move around the house one week later, they bought him a cane--a white one, with engravings. It was beautiful, and a striking reminder that they'd known and loved the most human parts of him, but at first Vergil left it upstairs by the Yamato as often as he could. He could not look at it without thinking of V's slowly dying body, not when his own refused to perform properly. It was silly. He wasn't dying. He'd just… underestimated the toll piecing himself together would take, without the Qliphoth's power flowing fresh through him, repairing the broken parts of him. That was the theory, anyway.

Then Ticho made doe eyes at him and whined about how cool he looked with the cane,  Kyrie mentioned she missed their musical training, Amelia muttered something about her dribbling skills, and Nero implied he was purposefully slowing his recovery because he knew he couldn't win a sparring match--and between all of them, Vergil grudgingly picked up the cane and used it even around the house.

He discovered the extent of his mistake when Nico first spotted him and dubbed him The Ancient One. The nickname caught with the children, then with Nero, and a few days later even Kyrie fell prey to it, her habitual "Mr. Vergil" devoured by the house's collective hilarity. Nico argued there could be worse fates than being the local eldritch horror and that Urizen had had enough tentacle-like roots to qualify, but it didn't make him feel any less old. He only prayed--pointlessly, no doubt--that it'd never reach Dante's ears.

Vergil used the downtime to focus on his studies, both demonic and fiscal in nature, and some days he truly wondered which of the two was the most arcane. He'd given back several exercises with perfect grades, yet it felt like all these terms and definitions formed a perfectly meaningless network, an entirely imaginary web of numbers and classification with no other purpose than to depict an intangible flow of money. Demons could be fought and killed, at least, and power was a tangible sensation coursing through him, manifesting in summoned swords, fast healing, and doppelgangers. It was difficult to keep in mind these hours of studying were more akin to training exercises, and that until he was wrangling Dante's money problems, he might not fully comprehend the point of them.

At least research into potential hell gates were advancing. Nico had dug out Agnus’s notes on the one created in Fortuna Castle, and Kyrie had helped him get his hands on a few choice texts held by the Order. Between those, his own knowledge of the veil’s permeability-- drawn more than anything from years wielding the Yamato and _feeling_ the seal between the worlds--and the stark memories of undoing his father’s work with the Temen-ni-gru, he could almost draft the elements required to create a passage between the human and demon world. He didn’t have a concrete answer to their puzzle, but now he was certain that if a powerful demon forced another to submit--and he had first-hand experience of Mundus successfully doing so--then it was possible the Devil Arm thus created could be used to reach the human world. Maybe. All he’d found went the other way--human world to demon world--but real gates allowed passage in both directions.

None of this gave him any idea of _where_ to reach Mundus, and how to stop this, and he tried to rein in his impatience as best as he could. Unlocking the secrets to the Temen-ni-gru hadn’t happened overnight, either, and he’d had scholarly help. As obnoxious as he’d been, Arkham had had access to a wealth of occult knowledge and resources, all of which were barred from them now. No matter. He’d rather manage on his own than deal with the buffoon or anyone like him ever again.

Two weeks after Fortuna Castle, Vergil managed longer walks and regularly volunteered for quick errands. He needed the exercise, and he needed to get out of the house. The painfully slow recovery was making him irascible, and he’d started snapping at Kyrie over the most asinine things. She was _too_ patient, and her insistence that rest was a normal part of the recovery process was grating. It _wasn’t_ , not for him, not for this long--nor should it ever be. 

There was, of course, an easy way to heal, but Vergil had pointedly avoided using the devil trigger while in Fortuna. Short bursts of demonic power would easily go unnoticed, but he’d learned in years dodging Mundus’s pursuit that his aura could be tracked more easily when he changed form. He suspected this would be even truer here, where the veil was thinner. Not to mention, whatever was wrong with him went deeper than mere physical illness, and a part of Vergil feared the trigger might not even be sufficient.

No, he would endure the humiliation of this Ancient One state while it lasted, or until an emergency forced his hand. Meanwhile, however, who would blame him if his errands turned into wandering, and if he avoided the stifling house to instead sit by the waterfront for hours?

“Hey, asshole, you don’t get to vanish like that.”

Nero was who, it seemed. Vergil didn’t deign answer, keeping his gaze on the calm water before him. Nero vaulted over the bench to sit besides him, almost knocking the white cane to the ground in the process.

“Ya heard me? Kyrie’s worried.”

“Then perhaps she should stop fussing over me like I’m one of her orphans,” he snapped, snatching his cane away. “I am not so weak that I cannot be by myself.”

“It ain’t about that.” Nero wiped his nose in a quick movement then looked away--was he ill at ease? “I ran off from the hospital without a word, and now she doesn’t like not knowing where family’s at, especially when we’re upset.”

“I am not upset,” he said, carefully avoiding thinking of the surge of warmth Nero’s casual inclusion of his person within ‘family’ had brought him.

“Sure. We’ll say that.” He shrugged then leaned back along the bench, away from Vergil, throwing an arm over its back and bringing a knee up, sitting in absolutely the worst way he could while he smirked. “You ever gonna tell me what’s wrong? ‘Cause when V and Urizen merged, you sure as fuck didn’t need healing time.”

“I can only guess.” He wrapped his hands around the cane and set its tip against the ground, leaning forward as he rearranged his thoughts, locking away the awareness this was his _soul_ he was discussing and continuing in the most clinical tone he could manage. “V and Urizen were created purposefully, split cleanly through the power of the Yamato. Whether through incompetence or indifference, I suspect the morsels of my soul used for the Angelos were… torn, so to speak. And thus, damaged. Furthermore, they’ve been separated for several years now, and I doubt time helped them.”

“So you’re, like, tryin’ to make a patchwork of messy mismatched pieces,” Nero summed up. Vergil agreed with a nod; it was an appropriate metaphor. “Demons don’t go healing their souls the same as their bodies, then, huh?”

“Bodies are a container, although most powerful demons have their souls deeply intertwined with it.” Mundus had taught him that. Nelo Angelo’s armour had been as much a means of control as an attempt to twist him into something more powerful, anchoring his soul into a modified vessel. Vergil shivered despite the ambient warmth, fighting off memories of spiked pain through his back. “According to my research, demon souls return to a place called the Black Basin, where they slowly reform their bodies. Lesser devils regenerate faster; their bodies and powers are less unique. Powerful ones can take thousands of years, if they ever come back.”

He must have gone there, after Dante defeated him on Mallet Island, but he had no recollection of the place itself, only of the excruciating pain of rebuilding himself. It was the only thing that made sense, though he’d be hard pressed to explain how he’d crossed back to the human world, or how the Basin had interacted with his human half. 

Nero snorted. “That’s gotta be bull. You took, what, a couple of years? And you’re one tough motherfucker.”

Vergil couldn’t help but glance at him, at his smirk and the challenge in his voice, and the corner of his lips tugged into a thin smile. “There is much I do not understand yet. Nevertheless, it is my hypothesis that the pieces used by Agnus touched neither the Black Basin nor the Qliphoth’s power, and as they were nothing but the ripped shreds of a corrupted wretch, their reintegration is proving… difficult.”

Regret coursed through Vergil as his calm demeanour slipped towards the end, a tight layer of bitterness and anger blanketing his description of Nelo Angelo despite his best efforts. Nero’s smile vanished and he stared hard at Vergil, the unspoken questions plain. It’d never cease to amaze Vergil, how easy to read Nero was, how unashamed of his own emotions he could be. 

“Ask,” he said, expecting full well to regret the offer an instant later. Nero hesitated. “Just ask, Nero, before I change my mind!”

“You stopped them with your amulet. It’s got Dante’s name on it.” Nero waved at the air in front of him, like it could make the question magically appear. “S’that because Dante beat Nelo Angelo?”

He should say yes. Dodge the truth and keep it to himself forever. Nero’s guess was a good one, and Vergil could make _that_ the story if he wanted, all with a simple word. It would be so easy to hide there, to keep the core of what had happened to him away, and so much more _prudent_. Vulnerabilities were meant to be removed or shielded, not exposed. For the longest time, Vergil only stared at Nero, the affirmative word worming its way past the tightness in his throat, urged on by years of concealing and protecting.

“No,” he whispered instead.

The denial escaped him, stealing all of his breath away in the process, and it felt like the rest of the world dropped away--nothing but him and this bench and Nero, sharp blue eyes studying him, latching onto his answer and waiting for more. There was _no escape_ now, no way to hide, yet Vergil felt like he would shatter if he dared go any further. Not even Dante knew of his true relationship with the amulet, and he never would--it would hurt his brother as surely as it did Vergil.

“This is a secret, Nero,” he warned, and he hated the way his panic and shame seeped into every word, laid bare for all to hear. What had become of his self-control? “No one can know.”

A slight nod; a silent promise.

Vergil absorbed them, drew courage from them. He could trust Nero, even with this.

“The amulet is a gift from our mother. We each have our halves. When I--”

Memories encroached again--water under him, the shallow pool reddened by his blood and the reflection of three red orbs looming above; the endless pain, in his body and mind and soul; the acrid taste of defeat, of fighting an unwinnable battle out of fast-dwindling pride; the delicate clinking of the amulet’s chain, and its soft splash as it hit the water; Mundus’s offer as Vergil stared at the red gem, shining through the ripples it’d created. His again, if he obeyed; destroyed if he didn’t. 

Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, focused on the cane’s engravings under his fingers, on the soft splash of waves and the sea-salt scent, on Nero’s presence nearby, the demonic aura barely perceptible. On the present, the here and now, the _safeness_ of it.

“They belong to the Sons of Sparda,” he continued, his voice clipped and raw. “I submitted to Mundus to regain mine, and Nelo Angelo was born from that decision. The souls must have remembered. We--I… surrendered for it.”

It was the most concise explanation he could give, and it’d left him utterly drained, his skull buzzing from the effort of keeping the worst of his memories at bay. Vergil reopened his eyes to find Nero staring back, his mouth working through words he didn’t say, until he finally found the answer he sought.

“Thanks.”

Vergil frowned, slightly confused by what had earned him gratitude, and Nero rolled his eyes.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and I’m guessing that ain’t too far off from reality. Even your punk-ass son can tell this shit’s no fun for you to explain, but ya did it anyway. And I really fucking appreciate the trust. So: thanks.”

Vergil managed a stiff nod of acknowledgement. He didn’t know how he felt about receiving thanks for laying so much of himself bare. Maybe Nero didn’t understand the significance of the amulet or the festering black mark of failure Nelo Angelo would always represent, or maybe he didn’t know what to do with it all. Either way, he seemed inclined not to discuss it any further, and Vergil could only agree with this. 

“The past is a bitter place for me,” he admitted.

Nero flung both legs back on the ground then jumped off the bench, turning to extend a hand to Vergil. “Let’s just move on, then. Look to the future and all that. C’mon, what was that Blake wrote? The wanderer thing?”

“ _Little wanderer, hie thee home_?”

Nero snapped his fingers and grinned. “Yeah, that one! Let’s get your ass back home, O Ancient One. We’ll get you some nice boring music and a thick book, and maybe a quilt to keep those poor old shoulders of yours from gettin’ cold? Tea to help with the digestion?”

“Now you’re the one fussing over me,” Vergil muttered, but he accepted the extended hand nonetheless, in part because he didn’t have the energy to stand smoothly himself. Even with Nero’s help, he found himself leaning heavily on the cane, his limbs shaking. This conversation had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. “But I’ll take the music, if it spares me the screeching horror and pointless booms you and Nico inflict upon us.”

Nero burst out laughing--a frank, spontaneous bark that never failed to soothe Vergil--then started off towards the house, one slow step at a time, allowing Vergil to keep up the pace without struggling too much.

“And you keep sayin’ you ain’t that old,” he said, clacking his tongue. 

They’d had this argument before, but for once Vergil let it go and refrained from pointing out Kyrie agreed with him. Neither of them spoke again, Nero’s usual energy surprisingly subdued and Vergil too shaken to strike up any semblance of conversation. It didn’t matter. For once, there was nothing tense and heavy in the silence between them, and Vergil was content to let it stretch and curl around them like the day’s peaceful warmth.

****

###

****

Kyrie had never expected how much she would come to rely on Vergil’s help to get through the day’s chores and retain a modicum of energy, but the changes in the household’s rhythm since he’d returned exhausted and irritable from Fortuna Castle had hit her like a brick. Having to put the extra work when her body wanted her to do nothing but sleep and every scent--food, soap, a breeze from the sea, the garden’s flowers--threatened to turn her nauseous was eroding all of her patience. 

For her own sake as much as his, she needed Vergil to recover, but he’d turned out to be exactly as difficult and prideful about healing as Nero could be, and even less inclined to listen to her. So when he’d vanished for several hours at a time earlier, it had been too much, and she’d sent Nero to knock some sense into him. She hadn’t expected it to work so well.

She and Nero sat on their bed now, the house quiet after a long day, pale light glinting through the window, and Nero slowly massaged the muscles of her lower back while he explained their conversation, or fragments of it, anyway. She could hear the secrets where he glided over details--Vergil’s untold past, shared for his ears alone--and she was glad Nero had that now. Slowly, achingly so, Vergil and him were bridging the chasm left by decades of absence and a violent first encounter. Nero reached the end of his tale just as he finished undoing the knots in her back. 

“I think I’m starting to get him.” He ran fingers along her skin and sighed softly. “Do you remember when I showed you my demon form?”

“Of course. You were afraid.”

He’d stood in their kitchen, bathed in the golden afternoon light, slender fingers turned into rough claws, his body suddenly all lean and hard muscles rippling with tension under thick, teal skin and strange, shining blue lines. Eyes the colour of honey had stared back at her, wide and terrified, and with his ear-like horns, he’d reminded her of a rabbit about to bolt. It was… adorable, in its own strange way, and so very Nero to radiate both strength and vulnerability at once. 

He’d been scared--not just of her reaction to his demonic appearance, but of what that might mean about him and who he was inside, and all his anger and love for fighting. So she’d walked to him, and ran a gentle hand along his strange cheeks, and cupped them so she could pull him close and kiss him. His lips were hard, and when he recovered from his surprise and kissed back, she’d felt the sharp teeth behind, but the tension had melted away from him and he’d whispered her name, voice soft even through the strange distortion.

“All I see is that the man I love has acquired new powers along with his new family,” she’d said, “and I know with absolute certainty that those will be put to good use, to better the world, as best as he can.”

He’d let the demonic form slide away, then, all but two shining wing-arms which had wrapped around her as he’d kissed her again.

Kyrie turned around now, smiled at Nero, and pushed gently on his bare chest. With a gruff mumble, he took the cue and lay down, flipping over so she’d have access to his back. Massages were always trades, he knew that, and he needed one as much as she did.

“I think he’s like that,” Nero started, head in the pillow, “but with his human side--afraid to let others see how it defines him.”

Had Nero just reached that conclusion? Kyrie choked down a soft laugh, desperate not to insult him too much. “Let me get this straight.” She set her thumbs at the base of his spine and slowly moved them up, pressing down and rubbing small circles to loosen the muscles along the bone. “You think the man who stabbed himself to tear the human in him away from the demon might have issues with what the human part represents?”

She couldn’t entirely keep the amusement out of her voice, and Nero must have heard it, because he flipped over, almost throwing her off in the movement. Strong hands grabbed her hips before she tipped, and he grinned up at her, blue eyes shining in the dim light.

“Whatcha sayin’, Kyrie? That I’m a dumbass for not seeing it sooner?”

She couldn’t help but smile back. Looking at Nero had that effect on her, like suddenly the world was softer and kinder, wrapped in a golden hue that warmed every inch of her body. She leaned forward, her hands in the pillow by each side of Nero’s head, and whispered “Me? I would never.”

Nero placed a kiss on the line of her jaw, then another at the corner of her lips, sending a long shiver down her spine. They had so few quiet nights where he wasn’t utterly exhausted from a day of fighting, or she from wrestling three children and a household. Lately, it’d felt like she’d spent more time alone with Vergil, practicing her singing, than she’d had with Nero. Yet as much as she wanted to lean into the kiss, they had more to discuss, and she wasn’t certain when they’d get the chance. She caught Nero’s lips with two fingers, and his little pout almost melted her resolve.

“I also spoke to Mr. Dante today,” she said, and it caught his attention enough that he stopped his irresistible pouting. Kyrie straightened up and pushed herself off him, sitting by his side. “It seems business has been booming lately, so we can expect him to come. He assures me sleeping on the couch is fine, but…”

“Dante could sleep on a wet, cold floor and wake up fresh as a daisy the following morning. Don’t worry about it.”

It was her time to pout. “Just because Mr. Dante _can_ sleep on the couch doesn’t mean he should. This will be an important day, and the living room might not be in any state to serve as a guest room, and I just think--”

“Kyrie.” When Nero said her name like that, soft and firm, she knew she was getting carried away. She held her next words and breath, trying to still the anxious thoughts running in her mind. “I really oughta send you pic of Dante’s place. Even three wild children don’t mess our home as bad. Where else would you put him anyway? Vergil’s got the guest room now.”

She sighed and ran her fingers along Nero’s bare arm, pointedly not looking at him. “His bed is large enough for two.”

Nero's quick laugh echoed loudly in the otherwise silent house. "Might as well kiss our guest room goodbye. They'll kill each other."

"They're brothers," she retorted, frustrated. Were none of these boys capable of behaving? It was only a bed.

Nero caught her arm and pulled her down, and she allowed him to ensnare her in his arms as she lay her head on the pillow. "We can ask them if you want. The look on their face is gonna be worth it anyway." He kissed the back of her head then nuzzled his nose through her hair. "They're both in for quite a few surprises, aren't they?"

Kyrie caught the hint of fear in his voice, a little tightness he couldn't quite bury under projected confidence, and she reached for his hand. "It'll be fine, Nero."

"Aren't you worried?"

"Terrified." So much of their lives was about to change, and most of it would happen through her and to her. How could she not be scared? "But not of their reactions. They're both family people, in their own, strange way."

Nero's entire body relaxed behind her, and for a moment he did nothing but hug her. "You know I love you, right? You always know what to say."

Most of the time, Kyrie felt like words weren’t enough, that no matter how hard she tried, she could only stand by, helpless, as the others fought. Since she’d lost Credo, not a week passed where it didn’t occur to her to ask for training so she could follow Nero and stay by his side at all times. It was a ridiculous thought: battle scared her, she had no love for bloodshed, and she could never be as valuable there as she was here, providing a haven for three orphans and her beautiful, impassioned, and so deeply wounded devil hunter. It had taken Kyrie a long time to properly value her role, to lean into her natural kindness and develop it as the strength it was, to recognize its necessity, but she’d grown a lot more confident since, even when it felt like she could be doing so much more.

“I love you too, Nero, even though you never let me finish your massages.”

Nero’s sleepy chuckle filled her with warmth. He nuzzled at her neck, pulled the light blanket over their shoulders, then settled against her. In a matter of minutes, the arm he’d thrown over her grew heavier and his breath steadied. Kyrie closed her eyes, amazed by the speed with which Nero always managed to fall asleep, and allowed herself to slowly drift away, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante is coming! Soonish! And these two are obviously planning something :]


	25. The Way You Say My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil and Nero test the extent of Vergil's recovery through some sparring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Nero to narrate again!

Red Queen's blade came a few inches away from Vergil's neck before his father caught it with the Yamato, blocking a strike that would have put a brutal end to their sparring. Nero pushed harder, planting his feet deep in the dirt as he pressed down, but Vergil didn't budge an inch. Their gazes met over the blades; Vergil's eyebrows shot up in a challenge, and Nero grinned back. Then he gave a quick spin to Red Queen's handle, and flames burst out of the fuel line along the edge, blinding Vergil as he disengaged, spun, and came back with a powerful horizontal strike. Nero felt the whoosh of air as Vergil leaped above, the pressure of nimble feet on his fiery sword, the alarm coursing through his body as he sensed the incoming kick. He bent backward to avoid it, but no boots passed overhead. Instead, Vergil pressed down with all his weight on Red Queen, sliding down the blade despite its searing heat, and a sharp pain across his chest warned him Vergil had scored a hit with the Yamato.

"Fuck," he said, dropping Red Queen and letting himself fall down, too. His back hit the ground hard, but it was better to stare at the sky than at Vergil's smug face. "Thought you meant to snap my neck with a kick."

"You'd have known better if you hadn't lost sight of me, spinning like that." Yeah, the smugness was definitely all over his voice, too. Nero focused on calming his heavy breaths, his mind reviewing the quick sequence, knowing the damn man had a point. Vergil tsked. "This maneuver is a little rough on my boots."

"Keep 'em out of the fire if you're gonna complain, old man." Nero pushed himself back up, to his feet, and dusted his coat, still pointedly looking away. "Guess you've earned one training session."

"One in which you obey without talking back, I trust."

Nero's head snapped up. That was never part of the agreement! "Keep dreaming, asshole." He bent over and picked up Red Queen. "Maybe we should go again, see if you can rake up more time for your fancy sword lessons."

He’d decided to treat Vergil’s offer for Yamato training as the whim of an old man he had no strong attachment to. This way, he didn’t have to think about the almost intimate relationship his father had with the sword, about his own attachment to it, and how deep and angry his bitterness had run, when he’d thought Vergil was mocking it at Fortuna Castle. 

Nero had been trying to draw upon the Yamato’s power for a good hour at the time, to feel it with him as he’d once had, yet all he’d managed was meagre summoned blades. It hadn’t felt like the Yamato had chosen him _at all_ when it no longer responded to him, and its absence had been a burning, humiliating betrayal--one Vergil had hit directly on. Then it had come, demonic energy coursing through him, unfurling into a blue ally above him, its voice clear in his mind, words slow, imbued with strength-- _Show. Him. Your. Power_ \--and Nero had thrown himself into the fight, unleashing old anger and newfound exhilaration both.

No, it was best not to treat this potential training as what it was: Vergil’s unspoken recognition of him as a _worthy_ heir. That thorny knot of emotion would leave him bleeding and raw if he tried to undo it.

Vergil twirled the Yamato almost lazily. “Same rules?”

No powers or related tools, for either of them. Nothing but the swords and their own reflexes. Nero grinned and raised Red Queen in defiance. A slight smile danced on Vergil’s lips.

“So eager to lose,” he said.

Nero snorted and sprang into action. Their swords met at the center, the clashing echoing in their chosen fighting grounds, deep in Mithis Forest where no one would bother them--and, more importantly, where Vergil would be nowhere near the house. Kyrie had a lot of secret preparations for tomorrow’s party, and she’d tasked him with keeping his father out of the way before he noticed anything out of the ordinary. He spent a lot of time studying for exams in his room, but even so, it had been too risky to keep him around so close to the end. A day of sparring to test the limits of his recovery had felt like the perfect, most subtle idea. 

Bottom line: it didn’t actually matter if he lost or not, as long as he kept Vergil busy, but that didn’t mean Nero had any intention to concede victories. Especially not to that smug bastard. But this time, he had a plan. Vergil’s physical strength might be back, but Nero doubted he’d have the endurance to go with it after a month of near immobility. If he could hold long enough to tire him…

Nero tried to hold back on the brutal offensive, calculating his maneuvers more, forcing his more aggressive instincts to take a backseat while Red Queen and the Yamato clashed repeatedly. He dodged almost as much as he parried, and soon enough Vergil was staring hard at him, blue eyes reevaluating the fight. They circled each other, Vergil’s strides almost relaxed while Nero’s were stiff from resisting his urge to rush in.

“Interesting,” Vergil said. “You want this one to last.”

Well, shit, was that so transparent? Nero responded with an exaggerated shrug. “Didn’t want to hurt your feelings by crushing you too fast.”

“I’m afraid ‘crushing’ might be a little out of your reach, Nero.” 

He smirked and moved two fingers in a smug come-at-me gesture, and Nero was halfway across the clearing before he’d considered this was exactly the reaction Vergil had wanted out of him. Oh well. Time to improvise! He feinted at Vergil, pushing him into a horizontal parry, and threw himself into a forward baseball-style slide at the last moment. The Yamato passed less than an inch off his head as Nero released his grip on Red Queen and grabbed Vergil’s ankle with his right hand, yanking hard and fast on it. 

Out of balance, Vergil pitched forward and immediately tucked himself into a roll, coming back up on his feet just as Nero slammed his heel in the ground, reversed his momentum, and charged at his back with a one-handed sweep of Red Queen. Vergil spun and leaned back, allowing the great diagonal swipe to pass over him as he switched his grip on the Yamato and countered with a piercing stab forward. Nero barely skidded out of the way, twisting himself into Vergil’s space to limit the man’s ability to strike again. For a brief instant, they stood back to back, both swords over-extended by their latest attack, then they both danced away and fell into a fight-ready stance. 

“You’re too slow,” Vergil said, and then _he_ was off again, and Nero barely brought Red Queen to bear in time. Damn, but he was right--even without slowing time around him, Vergil moved impossibly fast. The swords sparked as they held the lock, and Vergil added “Try to keep up.”

Vergil broke the lock and the Yamato flashed, lightning-fast, in a series of strike Nero struggled to block and dodge. His feet moved quick, his broadsword deflected what he couldn’t dodge, but with every new attack, he was forced backward and came a little closer to getting hit. His arms and legs burned from the constant spinning and jumping and striking, and he could feel the sweat trickling down his face and neck. This _had_ to be as demanding on Vergil as it was on him, but he remained a flurry of precise jabs and slices. Nero knew a losing scenario when he saw one.

He also knew it was never _really_ over. Maybe it was time for a gamble.

At Vergil’s next strike, Nero dropped Red Queen and dove forward, allowing the Yamato to score a thin red line on his side but getting himself firmly within Vergil's defenses. Alarm flashed through his father's normally collected expression as Nero grabbed his forearm and then threw himself upon Vergil, knee-first, bringing him down to the ground hard and fast. Vergil was already rounding his back to carry the momentum and try to flip Nero overhead, but while he wasted time there, Nero slammed his elbow in the dirt then used the shock of it to yank the Yamato out of Vergil's briefly weakened grasp. 

Then he _was_ being flipped overhead, but he'd been prepared for it and found his footing fast, still close to Vergil. He jumped right into attack mode, and this time Vergil was the one forced to dodge and spin to avoid a hit, deprived of even a sword to parry. He moved with infuriating grace, his face a mask of perfect concentration--until his heel touched Red Queen. 

They both had the same idea, and as Vergil tried to kick it back up and catch it, Nero lunged forward and plunged the Yamato through his palm. Vergil froze, his jaw clenching, and Red Queen hit the ground with a resounding clang.

"You were too slow," Nero said, and he pulled the sword out, causing a brief spurt of blood.

"Evidently." Vergil brought his bleeding palm closer to his eyes and clacked his tongue. It had to hurt like a bitch, but he didn't show it. "I drew first blood, however. You still lost."

Nero rolled his eyes. "Scratches don't count. I got worse from that first slide."

"The rules--"

"I _win_ , old man." He flicked the Yamato, sending blood splatters on Vergil's face. "Accept it."

Vergil cleaned himself, tight-lipped, and his stubborn refusal only brought a laugh out of Nero. He hadn't wanted to admit it atop the Qliphoth either, even though they all knew he was losing hard.

"We'll have to wait for this one to heal before we go again," Vergil said. 

A thin blue line already circled the wound, but he seemed to have trouble properly flexing his fingers. Maybe his powers weren't entirely returned yet, because Nero had seen Dante close up entire holes in his chest with barely a blink--or maybe he _was_ tired now, and looking for an excuse to rest.

“Sure, we can give your old bones a rest.”

Vergil bristled. “I am not tired, Nero, you skewered my hand.” He extended it, blood still trickling on the grass under them. “Even so, give me the Yamato, and I’ll prove it.”

Nero laughed in his face and spun the blade around, going as far as to fling it high as if juggling with it. He felt an echo of power within him, the hint of Vergil moving through time and space, and he _knew_ the fucker had pinched it to get the Yamato. Nero let his own demon powers surge and sank into the extra awareness it granted him, the instinctual knowledge of Vergil’s movements. He could almost perceive the man’s blue outline running up to him, _leaping_. Nero jumped up, wide blue wings sprouting behind him as he did. He sent one hand after the Yamato, could feel it racing for the pommel even as Vergil’s outlined fingers stretched out.

Vergil reappeared as his fingers clasped over the pommel--right as Nero's did, too. Their gaze met briefly, then Nero used his second arm to bitch-slap Vergil.

It would have been a better plan had Vergil's grip on the Yamato not been made of iron--had Nero's own demon arm not clutched the weapon as hard as it could, too. As it was, they both went flying, crashing on the ground in a tangle of limbs, both refusing to let go out of principle more than anything. They rolled in the grass and dirt, throwing kicks and punches, Vergil summoning blades to counter Nero's extra arms, neither of them gaining any ground on the other, until something passed between them--a silent acknowledgement that this one was a draw--and they both flopped side by side, the Yamato between them, each with fingers wrapped around it still. For a time, only their pants filled the silence, and Nero stared at the blue sky, entirely content.

"This is…" Vergil started, but his voice trailed off, the wonder in it the only indication of what he might've meant.

Nero didn't need him to say it. He could feel the quiet peace of the moment in his bone, similar to that night by Fortuna Castle, yet so entirely different, devoid of its weight.

"Yeah," he said.

He smiled at the sky and let the demon arm's clumsy fingers squeeze the Yamato, and Vergil's hand under. Neither of them would ever acknowledge he'd done that, but it still felt good.

After a while, Nero released the Yamato and rolled over, sitting up. "I brought us beer, and the shitty cooler won't hold it cold for long, so we better drink it."

"Beer," Vergil repeated, not without a hint of disappointment. 

Nero rolled his eyes, but he and Kyrie had seen that one coming; he'd only rarely accepted beer since arriving. Wine, on the other end… "Got a whole bottle of white wine for my fancy old asshole, too."

Vergil pushed himself up then and even though he wasn't smiling, his interest shone through his eyes, the way he leaned forward a little, and the slight tilt of his head. It was strange, how much more easily Nero could read him now, for small things like this. He wished the same was true for bigger, more important things, but he'd never been all that good understanding people. He just loved them all the same.

"I will accept wine," Vergil said, needlessly solemn.

"Figured."

Nero jumped to his feet and headed for the cooler. He'd only planned on alcohol in case he needed an emergency distraction, convinced that somewhere during the day Vergil and him would have yet another fallout, and suddenly this outing would turn into a torture of painful awkwardness. Yet Nero felt like maybe they wouldn't need it after all, and now was the perfect time for a more laid back moment. He opened the cooler, pulled the white wine out of its ice bucket, and threw it Vergil’s way. Then Nero grabbed his pack of beer cans--these were quality, at least, and not the hipster crap Nico drank--slammed the cooler close, and returned closer to Vergil, to plop down in the grass. They ought to have picked a place with rocks or stumps, but too bad.

Vergil’s gaze shifted between him and the bottle. “I seem to be missing implements.”

It took a moment for Nero to remember Vergil wasn’t entirely up to new-century tech. He opened his can, reveling in the fizzling sound, and said, “It’s a twist-cap. Way handier when you’re out.”

“I noticed,” he said, “but it does little to provide me with a glass to drink from.”

Nero had just taken his first swallow, and he almost spit it out at the comment. “Just drink straight from the bottle, old man! The propriety police ain’t gonna show up here to scold ya, I promise.”

Vergil answered with an indignant huff but still opened the bottle and tentatively drank from it. Nero stared at him as he did, just for the heck of it, and he was rewarded by a very discreet blush creeping up Vergil’s neck. He brought the bottle down with a scowl. “Will you stop that?”

“I ain’t doing anything,” Nero said, desperately trying to school his face into the picture of innocence and perfectly aware of how utterly useless he was at this sort of deception. 

Vergil drank again, a swift swing, like he couldn’t deal with the idea of Nero staring at him again. “You’re asking for another throuncing.” 

Throuncing. _Sure_. Vergil needed a reminder of his defeat. “How’s your hand?” Nero asked, and without a word, Vergil exposed his now-healed palm then flexed all of his fingers in a demonstration. That was good. “And the rest of you?”

Vergil stiffened and gave a whole lot of attention to his bottle of wine, all of a sudden. Nero scowled. He didn’t need a whole novel from the man, damnit, but this prolonged healing period was unnerving. Nero wanted whatever the fuck was wrong with that soul fusion, and all the Fortuna Castle bullshit, to be well behind them. 

“C’mon, I can tell the healing’s still off. What else?”

Vergil tapped his foot on the ground, then his shoulders rose in a deep, slow breath. Nero forced himself to be patient. Pushy didn’t tend to work well on Vergil.

“Everything is like a muscle, left unused for too long, now stiff and draining to flex.” He turned to Nero with a slight shrug. “I no longer experience issues with the summoned swords, as I've used them repeatedly, and pinching time is a possibility, albeit a demanding one. The rest will follow. You need not worry.”

He sounded honest enough, for once, so Nero dropped it. They drank in silence. Vergil had closed his eyes and tilted his head back, one hand spread in the grass, and Nero knew he’d lost him for a while. He wondered if Vergil realized how often he did that--just suddenly checked out, sometimes soaking the sounds of life and nature around him, sometimes lost to memories of his past. It felt more and more frequent, like perhaps Vergil was relinquishing the tight control he’d always kept on himself, that forced alertness to potential danger. 

It ought to be good, but fuck, those long stretches made Nero fidget. He tried to imitate him and just close his eyes and enjoy the sun, but it didn’t last. He wanted to talk, or spar, or _do_ something, and instead he played with the tab on his beer can, and drank it down faster, and opened another. Dante and Nico never stopped talking when they had a bit of alcohol in them, and that suited him just fine. Nero wasn’t one to get lost in his own head. He reached for Red Queen and kept himself busy with maintenance.

He’d finished a second can, and Vergil half his bottle, by the time his father broke the silence.

"Nero…"

With time, Nero had learned there were a lot of different ways for Vergil to say his name, all with a different relief and meaning.

There was the Nero of Anger, the one that snapped through air like a whip, sometimes with a barely-restrained demonic burst, a sign that Vergil was holding back waves of irritation because he thought Nero was being foolish. Nero hated that one--it made him feel like a scolded child, and Vergil had no fucking right to that.

There was the Nero of Hurt, spoken softly, sometimes even with a strangled voice when Vergil's control slipped, which emerged when Nero'd said something hurtful, but Vergil knew he kinda deserved it or he'd rather not explain why that'd hurt and leave Nero in the dark. Nero had mixed feelings about this one. It was the first he'd ever heard, atop the Qliphoth, when Vergil had ordered him to stand down like this wasn't his fight, and it filled him with a mix of satisfaction at reaching through to this asshole, and guilt at hurting him.

Then there was the Nero of Panic--a rare occurrence, shouted in a hurry and no doubt instantly regretted, one Nero had only heard a handful of time, including when they'd fought outside Fortuna Castle, or when the kids had teamed up on Vergil, sometimes crowding him closer than he could handle. In the latter case, it'd filled Nero with the sweetest smugness. He'd come to the rescue, knowing Vergil was mostly fine under all this (they'd given him a safe word, to use if he truly needed anyone to back off quickly, and Nero trusted all three kids to obey that unquestioningly).

The one he’d just used was newer. Vergil spoke it hesitantly, sometimes in a half-whisper, when he had a question to ask he considered intimate, or silly, or a little humiliating, and he knew he’d never dare say it all at once. Instead he cast Nero’s name out, initiating the conversation and trusting his son wouldn’t let him get away with silence. Nero had dubbed this one the Nero of Communication, and it was his favourite.

Nero reached for a third can and popped it open before meeting Vergil’s gaze. “Yeah?”

A beat of hesitation--blue eyes squinting, evaluating the foolishness of Vergil's decision to speak.

“Thank you. For saving my life. For giving me…” He gestured at the wine and the clearing and the wholeness of the day. “All of this.”

Well, fuck, that was a shitton more serious than Nero had expected, and _you’re welcome_ didn’t seem like it’d cut it, in the way of answers. “Not too bitter I kicked your ass that first time, then, huh?”

For a brief instant, a wide and easy smile spread across Vergil’s face, and there was something incredibly Dante-esque to it, the kind of smile _he_ ’d sport while throwing himself into the couch with a stack of pizza box after a good demon hunt. Then it was gone, replaced by Vergil’s more contained smile.

“I traded one defeat for a lifetime of opportunities to grind Dante into dust.” His hands curled into a fist and he stared into the distance. “One day, I’ll break our even score.”

“You know he still stays he’s up one, right?” 

All right, Dante hadn’t said that in over a month, but did it matter when it got such an indignant scowl out of Vergil? That was probably half the reason Dante kept repeating it, anyway, and Nero was shaking with laughter before Vergil had even started his rant about learning to count. His mirth killed it pretty quickly, and he found himself on the receiving end of Vergil’s deadly glare.

“I see.” he said. “I may have to travel back to America to set things right.”

Nero snorted. “You could just call, ya know.”

Or he could wait, because Dante would be hopping in a plane soon enough, flying all the way to Fortuna--less than twenty-four hours now.

“I’m afraid phone calls do not allow for all the interactions necessary in settling this matter, Nero. Dante needs me in person.”

Now _that_ was an interesting way to put it. Dante didn’t need anybody; he’d managed just fine without Vergil for decades. Then again, maybe ‘just fine’ was an exaggeration, too. The more Nero learned of Vergil’s history and Dante’s recurring role in it, the more he perceived the silences in Dante’s loudmouth energy, the chunks of his past he never discussed except in sharp jokes. 

When Nero had stopped them atop the Qliphoth, he hadn’t fully understood the weight of the cycle he was breaking, had only seen the absurdity of losing family again, and he’d let his refusal of it all carry him. But these two… they _were_ meant to be together, and he’d done it. No matter how often he struggled to keep up with them, how much he yearned for their respect and recognition, Nero would always cling to that quiet knowledge and the confidence it brought him: without him, there would be no Sparda family, and no slow, painful healing.

“Ya just want an excuse to see him again,” Nero said.

Vergil rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I had to live with him, his mess, his childish humour, his snoring, and his music. How could anyone miss that?”

“You tell me, cause I ain’t buyin’ all that denial.” He downed the rest of his can and flicked it at Vergil, who caught it before it hit his face. Nero picked up Red Queen and stretched. “Ready to get your ass kicked again, O Ancient One?”

Vergil closed the bottle of wine and was up in one graceful movement, the Yamato in his hand. “I’ll rip that nickname out of you yet.”

Nero checked the time on his cellphone--2 p.m.--and grinned. They had ample time for more fights and more banter before Nico returned to pick them up, and Vergil didn’t sound remotely ready to go home. Mission accomplished, he thought, before jogging back to the center of the clearing, where his father already waited for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering about the timeline, they're now in late October. Also, Rebirth!Vergil definitely isn't a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. XD


	26. Double the Sparda, Double the Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante finally arrives in Fortuna to celebrate a big day with his twin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering why Dante was coming, you now have your answer! :)

Even with regular updates in his planner, Vergil had not anticipated how grueling the end of October would be study-wise. Spending the day with Nero had given his brain a much needed rest from all the accounting, yet he now felt the weight of all his abandoned work tenfold. His planner lay open on the desk, the three angry red squares marking this week's exams glaring at him. With a sigh, he clicked on the financial ratios exercise, opened his notebook to a blank page, and started.

It was gruelling work. There were a lot of these to know, and he had no doubts he'd never use most of them on the _Devil May Cry_ , but at least he had a pot of spicy mint tea to keep his mind awake and Kyrie's soft voice in the background, from his stereo. He knew all her songs by heart now and had been able to reproduce all but one in training. For some reason, he kept failing in the same sequence. Kyrie acted like she hadn't noticed, but they both knew he created the wrong notes. He’d have to practice harder, once his exams were past. 

Vergil grabbed the teapot and started refilling his cup. He was halfway through when a familiar laugh boomed through the household, startling him. Scalding tea spilled on his desk and he barely noticed, taken by the way his chest had expanded with brutal warmth, in his sudden lightheadedness and the disbelief coursing through him. 

_Dante._

Reality caught up to him as the burn on his hand registered and he glanced at the tea soaking his notebook, crawling towards his planner and laptop. Vergil slammed the teapot down, coming just short of shattering it, and scooped up his two essential work tools up before they got ruined. He threw both on the bed before snatching up his ruined notebook and giving it a quick shake. The thing dripped with tea, and Vergil doubted it’d be salvageable. 

“Hey Vergil!” Dante called from below. “Aren’t you gonna come greet your little brother?”

Gosh, he really _was_ here. Vergil ran both hand through his hair, desperate to place it back despite the chaos hours of studying always instilled in it, then he hurriedly pulled one of his drawer open. He’d chosen a simple white shirt today, but it wouldn’t do, to meet Dante with no trace of his signature blue on him, so he searched until he found a royal blue vest. A bit heavy for the heat, but it’d have to do. He pulled it on as he slipped out of the room, schooling his feature into a calmer, nonplussed expression, and strode down the stairs.

Dante wasn't at the door, but already way down the corridor, nearly to the kitchens. Had he gone straight for the fridge? Where were Nero and Kyrie? It would be just like Dante, to let himself in and grab something to eat, but he could hear other steps--both quick and child-like, and longer strides--nearing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. 

Dante spread his arms with a grin. “What kinda way to greet me is that? Give your brother a hug.”

It took Dante two quick strides to cross the corridor, but in that slim span of time, Vergil detected something odd about him--a mischievous glint in his eyes, the way his right fingers closed into a fist, a shift in his weight and stance--and his instincts kicked in. This wasn’t a hug: Dante meant to knuckle-rub his head again! And if Vergil let him, everyone would be there to see before it was over. 

Vergil dropped into a crouch, slowing time a fraction to surprise Dante, and he kicked at his brother’s legs. His foot connected, drawing an amused exclamation out of Dante, who let himself fall on him, reaching for his just-combed hair. Vergil caught his wrist before he could get there, and suddenly they were brawling on the floor, muscles rippling as they tried to get the other under control. Dante quickly wound up straddling him, white bangs half hiding his eyes, his grin turning victorious. He’d managed to grab both of Vergil’s hands, and this time Vergil didn’t fight back. He had a better plan, if he could focus enough to pull it off. While Dante secured his grip, he reached within, to the demons powers within and demanding abilities he’d rarely used out of his trigger. 

“I win,” Dante declared, reaching for the hair once more.

Vergil smirked back at him. “Foolishness.”

His mind was buzzing from the effort, a sure sign that even now, some of his strength hadn't returned, but a shimmering blue human-shaped doppelganger appeared behind Dante, reached for his brother, and rubbed its knuckles all over his head. Dante burst out laughing even as he reached back to try and stop him, and although the effort left him exhausted, Vergil couldn’t help but smile wider at the electrifying sound. 

“WOW that is _so cool_!” Julio’s excited voice pierced his happy daze, and Vergil’s eyes flicked to the child, leaning past the doorway with wide eyes. “Mr. Vergil can make a double! Why didn’t you ever show us that?”

For a brief instant, Vergil thought the child meant Dante, although how anyone would confuse them _now_ , when they no longer looked anything alike, baffled him. Then Dante pointed at the doppelganger behind him with a thumb. 

“This dude?” he asked in his best unimpressed voice. “He’s a weakling, buddy.”

Lightning-quick hands reached for Vergil’s ribs, leaving him only time for an alarmed gasp--“Dante! No--!”--before Dante’s fingers dug in, _tickling him_ \--the absolute indignity!--and Vergil’s tenuous grasp on his doppelganger vanished. Vergil grabbed his brother as hard as he could despite his body twisting involuntarily away, and flipped him to the side, freeing himself. Dante hit the corridor’s quaint table, and Vergil watched in horror as a vase tipped over, falling--

Only to be caught by Nero’s blue demon arm. He scowled at the two of them, laying on their side on the floor, facing each other. “You two are worse than children,” he said, placing the vase back where it belonged. “This isn’t the _Devil May Cry_. I will have no brawling inside.”

Vergil stood up, brushing off his pants and shirt. “He started it.”

“You tripped me!” Dante protested, sitting up and leaning against the wall, his red coat spilling around him. He extended a gloved hand. “Make it up by helping me up.”

“And have you pull me down?” Vergil asked, pushing the arrogant note in his voice. “I know your tricks, Dante. Get up yourself.”

Dante pouted at him, but before he could make up his mind and get up, Nero’s demon arm grabbed his coat’s collar and yanked him up. “You two are lucky it’s your birthday, because I would’ve thrown you right out. C’mon, Julio. Kyrie still needs help.”

Vergil never felt the kid brush past him on his way to the kitchens. Someone could have slowed time, frozen him in any universe, and it wouldn’t have felt any different. _His birthday?_ His throat tightened as he realized they were right, it _was_ his birthday, and he’d absolutely forgotten about it, hadn’t given any consideration to these meaningless anniversaries since… well, since Dante was no longer with him to celebrate. It had hurt too much to think of it, as a child, and as time passed he’d learned to hate then forget the day.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, startling him. Dante smiled, but Vergil could tell he was studying his reaction, gauging his mood. “Ya think they made one cake or two cakes?”

“Two, if they know what is good for them. I’m not sharing yours or letting you steal the chocolate again.”

Dante snorted. “That just makes more for me.” He squeezed Vergil’s shoulder then set both hands on his hips. “The whole day’s ours Vergil. Whatcha want to do? Our two lovebirds said it was either in your room, or out of the house.”

He was supposed to be studying. He had three exams this week, none of which he was ready for, and he’d marked the entire day for this in his planner. By all means, he should tell Dante to take a hike and return to his books. Except his twin had crossed an ocean to be with him, on _their_ birthday, and he couldn’t think of a better excuse to push those fiscal ratios out of his mind.

“Nico showed me a delightful gelato place by the harbour,” he said, gesturing for the door. “They serve strawberry.”

Dante was on his way before he’d even finished his sentence. “All right! Better than Freddi’s?”

“You tell me, brother. You’re the expert.”

****

###

****

Dante spread out on a bench by the waterside, basking in Fortuna’s hot sun, the cold sweetness of his strawberry sundae, and the quiet presence of Vergil besides him. Damn, but his brother looked better than when he’d left for Fortuna, blue eyes haunted by the ghost of Mundus and ringed with bags from too little sleep. He still had some of that tired air about him--probably didn’t sleep much still, the idiot--but it felt calmer, more loose. Or maybe it had to do with how easy it’d become to make him smile now. Vergil kept trying to hide it, rolling his eyes at Dante’s jokes like he didn’t find them hilarious, or adding arrogant jabs to them as a justification, but Dante knew better. The haughty little fucker had missed him, and he’d grown too soft to properly hide it.

And honestly? So had Dante. The shop was just too damn empty without him now. He’d taken down most of the decorations and relocated them to Vergil’s room, telling himself they’d be there for his return, that there would _be_ a return, and ignoring the searing truth that Vergil had talked about leaving before his invitation to Fortuna. He was being dumb, anyway. Living with Vergil was annoying, and he’d used his renewed freedom to build great pizza box piles with Lady and Trish and blast music till the wee hours of the day. Why would he want to lose all that? 

(For the quarrelling and sparring and the quieter nights, spread on the couch with whiskey, the mutual silence a balm on their bloodied history, the undeniability of his existence a counter against his mind insisting it couldn’t be, that his brother was dead, that he had killed him for good on Mallet island.)

Dante shoved more strawberry sundae in his mouth, shoving away those thoughts. He’d had reminders--Nico kept sending the best pictures to Morrison, and he’d come back at least once a week from a hunt to find a full 8’’ x 17’’ page spread of her latest shot of Vergil. Lady, Trish, and him had started ranking them, and nothing had unseated the very first they’d received, of his brother hilariously clutching a trash can while he puked, half his hair down from the seasickness, daggers in his eyes as he looked up at Nico. There was _no way_ he’d realized what she was up to--the picture wouldn’t have survived.

It wasn’t his favourite, however. Barely made Top Three, really.

Number Two was a picture of the backyard. Vergil sat in the rubble, his poetry collection in hand, his sleeves rolled up and sunglasses set in his hair. He held his book like he was reading it, but a careful observer could easily note his attention was elsewhere--on Nero, occupying the forefront of the picture with Kyrie, holding her tight as he spun her around. The two lovebirds were grinning, disgustingly in love and seconds away from a big ass smooch, and it’d left something soft and wistful on Vergil’s expression.

Number One had made him pick up the phone and brought him one spin away from calling Fortuna in the middle of the night, until he’d spotted the note scrawled by Morrison-- _Nicoletta says he’s fine._ It had Nero carrying his father out of Fortuna Castle, and whatever that note said, it _didn’t_ look remotely fine. But the more he looked at it, at Nero’s and Vergil’s expressions, the more he loved the story it told. 

Dante hadn’t shown this one to the girls, and he’d still called as soon as it was a decent hour in Fortuna and used his charms on Nico to get the news and tell her to keep the faxes coming, especially the most compromising ones--he was, after all, slowly covering the walls of Vergil’s room with them. After that, the number of picture updates he received jumped to several a week. The one with Vergil clenching his cane in one hand and angrily reaching for the camera with the other, accompanied by a note saying _Behold the Ancient One_ had left him sprawled on the couch and holding his ribs from laughing too much.

None of it compared to having Vergil really there, though, sitting stiff on the bench and staring at the sea, lips pinched like he could conceal his wonder at it, his ice cream sandwich untouched still.

“The last time we were together on our birthday,” Vergil said. “Mother was alive.”

“Best not to think of it, no?” Dante shoved more ice cream in his mouth, hoping Vergil would move to another topic. He didn’t.

“I stopped celebrating,” he said, still staring ahead. “Instead, I marked the anniversary of her death. Called it my awakening.”

“Vergil.” Dante sighed and tapped his brother’s cheek with his dirty spoon. “I want to have a good time, not to think about how that day fucked us up. We’ll figure out how to honour _that_ when it comes ‘round, all right?”

“Hm.” He wiped his cheek, remembered to throw a pointed glare at Dante for that, then slowly unwrapped his sandwich, returning his attention to the sea. It took him a while to speak again. “Did you borrow more money from Lady to come here?”

“Me? I’d never!” He set a hand over his heart as if hurt, and grinned at Vergil’s flat stare. “You got me, I totally would’ve. Didn’t need to, though. Business’ been good.”

Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. Tension immediately returned to Vergil’s body, the quiet alertness of those used to expecting danger at all times. His brother very slowly took a bite out of his ice cream, and as silence stretched on, Dante began to hope he wouldn’t push for more information.

Then Vergil huffed in impatience. “Tell me, Dante.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” It was a feeble attempt, and it only earned him a glare. “Christ on a stick, Vergil, if it mattered I’d have told you already. There’s just been more of this sludge thing. We hunt almost every night now, and it’s a pain to keep everyone but Lady clear of it. Makes everything way less fun.”

That was a lie. He’d gotten completely drenched in it twice now, but apart from the horrifying buzz all over his skin and the inevitable surge of his demon form, it hadn’t hurt as badly as he’d have expected. Trish thought her pain and Vergil's might be related to what Mundus had done to Vergil, or how he’d created her, and if that was true then he sure as all hell wasn’t telling Vergil about it.

“It’s not about _fun_ , Dante.”

“But everything’s always better when it is.” He dug into his sundae deep, coming up with a massive spoon and shoving it all in his mouth. Vergil glared at him the whole time he ate. “We got this, bro. The three of us have been doing this for decades now. You just keep up your research while we keep up our killing, right?”

Vergil had made a point of updating him on his progress, even though about half of his ramblings entered Dante’s head from one ear and promptly left through the other. After a while, he’d started handing over the phone to Trish whenever she was around. She was much more useful and knowledgeable, either way.

"As long as you let me in on the killing once we've figured it out."

"Wouldn't dream of going without you."

Strike two on the lies, Dante thought. If this turned out to be Mundus, he'd leave Vergil behind in a heartbeat. He could kick that asshole's ass without his brother's help, and he'd seen how Vergil reacted to the _idea_ of the demon prince. Dante didn't give two shits about proper closure if it saved Vergil this particular pain.

"Thank you, Dante."

The warmth in Vergil's tone gave Dante a huge punch of guilt, which he immediately shoved away. They could fight over it when it was done.

"So. Tell me all about Fortuna!"

Vergil’s lips tugged into a slight smirk. “Fortuna is an isolated island off the coast of Italy once reigned by our father, the Dark Knight Sparda, now venerated as a God. The town is currently governed by--” 

Dante hit his arm hard, and Vergil’s boring lecture turned into a sharp laugh. He took another bite of his ice cream sandwich, leaving Dante hanging even longer, and seemed to relish in _very slowly_ swallowing it. He leaned forward and his gaze grew distant, lost at sea. For a moment, Dante wasn’t certain he’d ever get an answer. 

“I am not sure I can explain, Dante. It is… I believe soothing would be the best word. I have no complaints, but…” Vergil turned his head away. “But this life… it… doesn’t feel real.”

Dante’s head snapped in his direction. Of course it didn’t. For thirty years of their lives, this reality had been a complete impossibility, a ludicrous thought reserved only for the most desperate nights. And fuck, Dante had dreamed of it often enough to know the hurt left behind when the illusion faded and cold reality caught up. Their family had been decimated, and even when they’d found each other, he and Vergil had fought, initiating a cycle neither could have broken.

“I still wake up thinking you’re dead--that I killed you.” He didn’t bother to cushion his words with a joke, not this time. “Dunno when it’ll start feelin’ real to me either, Vergil, but it sure is anyway.”

Vergil stiffened by his side, and his free hand reached for the amulet at his neck. He said nothing, didn’t look Dante’s way either, only kept staring ahead like the ocean would speak for him. Couldn’t entirely blame him. Not much one could answer to that, especially someone with Vergil’s pride. The hand on the amulet was more than enough, anyway. Dante touched his, too, and smiled. 

“We’re two messed up motherfuckers, aren’t we?”

Vergil’s derisive huff was so familiar, it sent a wave of warmth through his bones. Dante could almost hear the disappointed _“Foolishness”_ that went with it. He tilted his chin up and slowly turned towards Dante, a resolute flame in his icy blue eyes.

“No. We are the Sons of Sparda, Dante, and we carry the scars of our paths.”

Dante pushed at his brother's shoulder a little. "Same difference, no? It's not a competition of who says it best."

"But if it was, I would've won."

Dante snorted. Reminder number one: it was always a competition with Vergil. But he got the point, too. This fucking universe had been battering them left and right since they were kids, and they'd coped as they could (Vergil with the worst mistakes possible), but in the end they'd made it through and they were _together_. The rest would scab over.

"Perhaps…" Vergil started, surprising Dante by breaking the silence once again, "Perhaps _you_ should tell me about Fortuna. I know how Nero first recovered and repaired the Yamato, but not how you found him."

Was that a hint of gratefulness in Vergil's voice? Now that would be the day. Dante smirked and slid into the most didactic voice he could. "Fortuna's a shit town who went Stockholm complex on its once-lord, our father, and made a military cult around him. It--"

"Dante!" Vergil snapped, and Dante could only laugh at his glare. Didn't like having his jokes turned on him, huh?

"I killed his pope so Nero stabbed me in the chest--with the Rebellion, too! That was my first clue he was your son, when you think about it." Vergil’s scowl softened at that, which drew another laugh from Dante. He shoved his hand in his brother’s face, taking great satisfaction in the indignant yell that provoked. “You think it’s funny.”

Vergil batted his hand away. “So do you,” he pointed out, and that was kinda true, so Dante let it go. He tapped his plastic spoon inside the now empty sundae. 

"I'm gonna get a refill, and then I’ll tell you what I know. You’ll have to ask Nero for the rest.” 

If they’d already talked about the Yamato, none of what Dante could tell outta be kept silent, no? It amazed him to think that in the span of two months, Vergil and Nero had already breached that particular can of worms. What else had he missed? His family was slowly mending itself and he was miles away from it, still at the _Devil May Cry_ with Lady and Trish, still demon hunting. Stuck in the past while they were moving forward, leaving good old Dante behind. Ugh. 

Dante shook himself, physically expelling those thoughts like a big wet dog, and hurried to the gelato stand. He’d built _Devil May Cry_ from scratch and while at first it’d been an excuse to kill demons and time alike, a place to drift in this stupid world while he waited for the next mess to clean up, the next demon challenging enough to make him forget, briefly, the searing hole his family had left behind, it’d grown into something more. It was a business he’d built through fire and blood, his shared partnership with Lady and Trish, and a way to honour his father’s legacy. And now Nero was a part of it, too, with his old van and his own destructive partner. _His_ business was a family business, keeping the world exactly how Sparda had wanted it, and he was damn proud of it.

Dante leaned on the counter and asked for two more strawberry sundaes, allowing that bit of defiant pride sink into him. It had been so fucking hard, over the years, to keep that flame awake, to enjoy how damn amazing he was when all it took was a quick look in the mirror to remind himself what that awesomeness had accomplished--who he’d killed with it. But now that Vergil was back--now that he _didn’t_ have to kill him again?--maybe, just maybe, he could move past that, too, and spend a day celebrating the honest-to-god gloriousness of Dante, Son of Sparda, Legendary Demon Hunter and Devourer of Pizza, without any second thoughts. And that started with as many strawberry sundaes as he could fill his stomach with.

****

###

****

By the end of the afternoon, Dante had a whole stack of empty strawberry sundae cups and the gelato place kept eyeing them warily. 

It had been a strange few hours. Vergil couldn’t remember ever talking so much with Dante. As children, they’d always been playing or fighting, or he’d be hiding up trees or on the roof to get some quiet reading time. As adults… well, even after his return, their conversations tended to remain parse. Dante had napped on him more often than he’d talked to him, really, and Vergil had been glad for the silence. It’d felt like any conversations would only stir back decades of conflict. 

That didn’t happen today. Perhaps they’d both made some measure of peace with what had passed between them through the decades. Hard to tell. The result, however, was an hours-long conversation of Dante reminiscing about past birthdays, his memories vivid and cherished drawing a stark contrast with Vergil’s own shattered ones. He found himself clinging to every word, struggling to keep his features cool and his tone steady as Dante painted over the holes in his memory left by Mundus with cheerful anecdotes.

He talked of their mother and her yearly retelling of the story of how Sparda had wanted to create an incantation circle under the table to make their wishes come true; of the way cake always ended up flying across the dining room in a heated fling-battle after Dante tried to steal some of Vergil’s; of their sixth-year anniversary, when they’d emptied an all-you-can-eat buffet and promptly been given to understand they would never return to such restaurants… and then, of course, as such a conversation would inevitably lead, of their eighth birthday, when their mother had entrusted them with one half of the amulet each. Vergil remembered holding the amulet in tiny hands, but not much else.

“Sometimes I think she knew Sparda wouldn’t come back when she gave us those,” Dante commented.

Vergil’s hands clenched in his lap. Half of these stories had been so familiar, yet Eva was always absent from them in his memory, a perceptible blank. But the amulet itself… he could hear her voice, at the edge of his mind, not quite entirely forgotten. 

“She did.” He couldn’t explain how he was so certain, only that he’d always been convinced of it. He must have reached the conclusion from memories now gone. “Don’t ask.”

His voice had been rougher than he’d intended, distorted by the thickness in his throat. Dante stared at him, and although a smile still clung to his lips, Vergil could feel his mood shift. He must have finally sensed something was off.

“You still angry at her?” Dante grabbed his shoulder, sudden fire in his eyes, and Vergil didn’t miss the dangerous note in his tone. “She didn’t choose me. I was _right there_ when it started and she ran for you after.”

“I know.” He shrugged off his brother but couldn’t hold his gaze. “It’s not that, Dante. It’s…” He wavered for a moment. Was it worth telling Dante? His brother didn’t need to know and he’d hate it. But if they kept having these conversations about childhood--and Vergil _wanted_ them to continue happening--then his twin would find out sooner or later. Vergil leaned against the bench, tilting his head to the sky, and steeled his voice. “I no longer remember her, Dante. The memories were taken from me.”

Dante flinched away, and for a brief instant nothing filtered his stricken expression. “They-- _what?_ ”

"They're gone," he repeated, and he proceeded to explain, his outward calm giving away nothing of the growing anguish swirling inside. "I recognized the portrait on your desk because I knew Trish had been created to resemble her. The rest… I remember you, I remember Father, and sometimes I remember that she was there, an indefinable presence. Mundus took these memories, Dante. If I forgot and you died, then _nothing_ would be left of her." He touched his amulet and forced himself to meet Dante's gaze, even at the risk of blowing his cover of calm. “So you’ll have to remember her for the both of us, I’m afraid. Can you promise me that? Keep telling those stories. Keep her alive for me, since I cannot.”

“‘Course I can.” He clasped his own amulet, a little breathless, and managed a pained, lopsided grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’d be this family’s only memory.”

Vergil’s stiffened, fighting the searing lance of guilt and shame that’d sent through him. Dante hadn’t meant it as an attack--he’d thought himself alone for decades--but it hurt nonetheless. And this… this wasn’t his choice. He’d have given Mundus _anything_ before that--anything except his memories of Dante. 

“At least… at least I remember you, Dante.” He let go of the amulet and tilted his chin up, forcing a certain haughtiness in his voice. “I cannot imagine the self-aggrandizing lies you’d pull on me if I didn’t.”

“Hey now.” Dante must have meant to chide him, but his voice came out all soft and mellow. Silence stretched between them again, heavy with Vergil’s missing memories. Dante cleared his throat and squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s just go back to Nero’s and make you new family memories.”

“Right… Let's.”

And just like that, Vergil stood up. Dante picked up his empty cups and suggested he ought to get one more for the road, but Vergil scolded him, pretending it’d ruin his appetite for the nice dinner Kyrie had no doubt prepared. Neither of them believed for one second Dante could run out of room for more food, but they’d rolled with the lie, found a trash can for his sundae cemetery, and slowly made their way back home. Neither spoke a word about his absent memories and the weight they left behind, and Vergil hoped it would always remain this way. Some things were best left alone, in case they grew and became too much to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few weeks are going to be filled with soft brotherly content and big family feels. <3


	27. Dinner with the Spardas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a small family has a nice but chaotic birthday dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for some new layer of wholesome Sparda family fluff?? READ ON MY FRIENDS.
> 
> Bonus: With this update, Rebirth officially hits the 100,000 words mark, and I couldn't be happier that it happens here. :)

“Will you stop fidgeting so much?” Vergil snapped, smacking Dante’s shoulder with the hair dryer. It burned briefly, and Dante smacked it back.

“I just don’t see why we gotta do this! My hair’s fine.”

“Kyrie said--”

“I was perfectly presentable.” They’d had this argument already, before Vergil forced him into the shower. He tilted his head back to stare at his brother, sitting on the bed behind him, armed with the blower and a scowl. “You’re just being fussy.”

“Someone has to.” Vergil grabbed Dante’s head and forced it back down, and for all his irritation at having his hygiene called into question repeatedly in the last half hour, it was kind of amusing to make Vergil do all this. “Didn’t they tell you to bring nicer clothes for tonight?”

“My coat--”

“Is a dirty, stained mess,” Vergil cut off, before pushing the hair-dryer at full power, burying any chance of a retort under the awful noise. Dante grumbled as the hot air sent his hair flying left and right. His coat was the epitome of fashion and most bloodstains didn’t even show on it. He’d have put a nice shirt under it, at least! 

Vergil himself was already dressed, though in Dante’s opinion he could’ve kept the blue vest he’d worn all day. Instead, he’d changed into a dark blue shirt--“indigo,” he’d said--with a subtle helix-like embroidery on the sleeves, and pulled on a pale vest that perfectly matched his hair. Dante had to wonder when he’d gotten all these nice clothes, the sneak, because he’d only had a handful back home.

Meanwhile, Danet sat with nothing but his underwear--a delightfully comfy pair with roses on it--his luggage containing only a bunch of black t-shirts to go under the coat and a mix of pants and shorts. Nothing fancy. He didn’t _do_ in fancy, not anymore, and certainly not like that. Except Vergil intended to force it on him for tonight. He was about to complain when his brother turned the dryer off and ran fingers through his hair to untangle them, scratching his scalp as he went--and damn, that felt nice.

“Do that again,” he mumbled.

Vergil froze instead, and a thick silence hovered in the room. Then, very softly, he whispered “You’re an idiot” and scratched him a second time, slower.

“Yeah, I hate you too,” Dante replied. 

He let Vergil tug at the knots in his hair, his smile widening every time his brother tsked at a particularly bad one as if its very presence was a crime. Fuck, but a hand in his hair felt downright amazing. He was starting to get why Lady and Trish often wound up playing with the other’s when they’d drank enough to slip out of the usual one-upping back-and-forth. Maybe if he framed his demand as a fake-jealousy joke, he might get one of them to scratch him too, next time. 

Much too soon, Vergil withdrew his fingers and tapped his shoulder. “Right. This is as good as it’ll get. Let’s find you something to wear.”

Dante allowed himself a small ‘aww’ before climbing to his feet. He didn’t need to see Vergil to imagine the flat stare it got him, but his twin declined to comment. Instead, he pulled one of his drawers open and flung a pair of ironed black pants at Dante. 

“Start with these,” he said. “It’s a good thing we’re the same build.”

“Dunno about that, Vergil. Might’ve gotten away with the red coat if we weren’t.” Dante gave a quick snap to the pants to get a good look at them and groaned. “It’s our birthday, not a funeral.”

“They’re just pants, Dante! Put them on and stop whining.”

Oh, his tone had gone up one notch in irritation. Dante peeked over the pants, at his scowling brother, all proper and stressed out. “It’s just family dinner, Vergil,” he replied, imitating the Vergil’s tone with a smirk. “Take a breath and stop whining.”

The glare he received in return was all he’d dreamed of and he burst out laughing, flopping down on the bed, still undressed. Vergil stared at him, his mouth thinning in a grim line.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I just don’t see the point! They know me. No one would be upset if I strolled down with nothing but shorts and my open coat.” He pushed himself up on an elbow and gestured at his top-notch body. “The view’s so great, I'd be doing them a favour.”

Vergil grimaced. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one wants to see this.” He turned back to his drawer and began his search anew. “Besides, you err in your conclusions, Dante. _I_ would be upset.”

“You--” Ugh, way to play on his feelings! And he’d said it with just the right tone that Dante knew he wasn’t lying, the dumbass. He sighed and let himself fall again, spreading his arms out with all the dramatics of an angry teenager. “Fine. Don’t suppose you have anything red in there, do you? ‘Cause I’m _not_ putting on any blue.”

Vergil’s head snapped up, and Dante could almost imagine the cartoon lightbulb above it. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

He moved to his wardrobe, shoved several shirts aside, and retrieved the fanciest outfit Dante had _ever_ seen. The kind of fancy that had very uppity words to describe the cut and motifs and shit, and Vergil probably knew all of them, but he sure as fuck didn't. It was basically a wine red suit, with rose-like patterns imprinted in it, which went over a more scarlet red vest-thingy, which _then_ went over a silk-smooth shirt. This was the kind of bullshit rich evil men put on in movies in their grandiose receptions. Damn, it even had a front pocket for a handkerchief.

“I ain’t putting that on,” Dante protested. “No way in Hell. The fuck are you even doing with that, Vergil?”

A hint of colour climbed into his brother’s cheeks. “It… looked like something Father would’ve worn. The price was low, for what it is.”

“Still not wearing it! Just… find me something else. I’m not a fucking dandy.”

“It’s the only red I have, Dante.” Vergil met his gaze. The asshole was radiating mischief, and one could almost hear the little gears turning in his head as he went on smoothly. “Let’s compromise. You wear only the black shirt and red vest. We leave the brocade hidden upstairs--it can wait for Nero’s wedding.”

Dante was about to protest when Vergil’s words sank in and his brain came to a screeching halt. “Nero’s _what_ now?”

He was met by Vergil’s smug smile. “It’s bound to happen, isn’t it? Have you seen them, when they think they’re alone? It’s only a matter of time.”

“I hate you when you’re right.” But wow did he love the soft warmth expanding in his chest right now at the very thought of his nephew marrying, at the corny happiness his family might finally allow itself, and at the barely disguised pride in Vergil’s tone. 

“Think of it as training,” Vergil insisted.

“Torture is the word you’re looking for, big bro,” Dante countered, but he still rolled out of the bed and grabbed the pants. He stared at them, then at the fancy red vest, then at Vergil, waiting expectantly, eyebrows raised. “But what’s a little pain between family members, right?”

“Would you rather I stab you again?” He gestured towards the Yamato, sheathed by the door. “I can oblige.”

Dante paused, staring at the sword. “I don’t think you understand how tempting that is.”

Vergil ribbed him in response--which, really, he should have expected. Dante laughed and rubbed at his side before finally putting the pants on. To his surprise, Vergil didn’t lord his victory over him, simply delicately removed the suit from its hanger and spread the rest of the outfit on the bed for him. Dante slipped into the shirt with a grimace--it was too smooth, like the slightest hitch would tear it. Which, all things considered, was probably true. He buttoned it as fast as he could, trying to ignore how _weird_ it all felt. Then Vergil made it worse by reaching for his collar and setting it right.

“I’m going to look ridiculous,” he said. He could feel it in the twist of his stomach, in the way the entire thing screamed impostor. 

Vergil ignored him for a moment, grabbing his wrists one by one and rolling up the sleeves. Good idea, that--it helped make it feel a tad more casual. “Nonsense, Dante. You already look great, and with this?” He gave the red vest a very slight shake. “You’ll look like yourself. I promise.”

Big fat lie detected, right there! Nero was going to laugh his ass off. It shouldn’t bother Dante, these were just some clothes, but wearing them made him stressed out. This _wasn’t_ like the badass outfits he used to put together to go demon hunting with style. It was way too mundane, too real. Maybe Vergil had a point, and it’d get him used to these in time for more important stuff. Like, shit, _a wedding_. Wouldn’t that be amazing? 

Dante pushed down his unease, smacked a smile on his face, and put on the red vest. Vergil was on him in an instant, folding the front over and buttoning it on the side before placing it properly on his shoulders, then smoothing out the fabric. It was… almost motherly, and definitely also on the weird side of things, but not in a disagreeable way. When he stepped back, Dante spread his arms out and forced a cheer in his voice.

“How do I look?”

“Almost perfect.” 

Vergil scanned him, blue eyes taking in every detail, his brow knitted in a thoughtful, evaluating frown, like he was trying to put his fingers on the source of his ‘almost’. Which would be exactly what his perfectionist brother would do, damnit. And after a painful long seconds, Vergil’s eyes lit up. 

“Ah.”

“Ah?” Dante repeated. 

“Don’t move.”

Oh, he didn’t like that. “Vergil, what are you--”

Blue light shimmered in front of his eyes, and Dante stiffened, forcing himself not to jerk back as a razor thin blade slashed at--hey, no! Dante caught the cut off white bangs as they floated down.

“That was uncalled for.”

Vergil rolled his eyes at him. “It’s just an inch. You’ve grown much more than that since you first took on Urizen. And it was _entirely_ called for, Dante. Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Problem was, Dante did believe it. He didn’t need a mirror to know he was long overdue the haircut. It was a matter of principle, not of taste. “Do that again and I’ll cut your hair, too.”

“Touch my hair and you die.”

“See? I knew you’d understand.” He flung his own white hair at Vergil before brushing what else had fallen off from his brand new outfit. “All right, time to check that mirror in the bathroom. I need to know how bad it is.”

He pushed past Vergil without waiting for an answer, heading straight down the corridor. The vest felt tight around his chest, stifling, as if it was trying to contain not only his movements, but his whole personality too. Clothes like these were made for people like Vergil, folks who leaned towards control and subtlety. Him? He was more of an all-out kinda guy.

Then he saw his reflection in the mirror, and… well, _fuck_. He looked fucking superb in this shit, especially since he could see his eyes again. Drop Dead Gorgeous Dante, ready to charm you. And the more he smiled, the less like a stiff asshole he looked. Dante made finger-guns at himself in the mirror then winked, and he could just about have kissed himself. 

The soft chuckle from the corridor startled him. Vergil was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smirked. “I told you.”

“Yeah, okay, wise guy,” he conceded. “Let’s go impress the gallery.”

****

###

****

Kyrie reviewed the table one last time: two plates of sushi, one with fish, the other without; two large pizzas, one with olives, the other without; a whole array of pork potstickers, a pitcher of stout ale, and a bottle of white wine. It would have been simpler if the twins had shared any common grounds in taste and no doubt next time she wouldn’t complicate her life to this extent, but it _was_ their first birthday, and she’d easily surmised the importance it’d hold for the two brothers. She wanted the night to be memorable for the entire family, in all the best ways possible, and looking at the result of her handiwork over the last few days, she knew it would be.

“Oh hey, they’re coming at last!” Nico exclaimed, breaking her reverie.

All three of them had been in the kitchen for a good half hour now, listening with amusement to the muffled argument upstairs. Vergil had caught sight of her upon returning, taken in her long dress with a mockingbird embroidery and earrings, and immediately herded Dante upstairs “to get ready”. In theory, it wouldn’t be too complicated--everyone except Vergil himself had known ahead of time, and half of what Vergil wore would work just fine for tonight. Nero had dug out his one nice shirt--creamy white with golden lines at the sleeves, the same he wore to her concerts now--and even Nico had put in the effort, showing up in an elegant silver one-piece that bared her midriff, two little pistols as earrings and her hair held up by a mesh of bullets. She’d already taken up several pictures of them “all fancied up” and kept her cellphone ready for their arrival.

Then they walked down the corridor, side by side, _both_ of them the very definition of elegance, and only Nico found the words for what must have been on all of their minds. 

“ _Woo-ee_! You old men know how to look sexy.”

It drew a thin smile from Vergil, but it was Dante’s reaction that caught Kyrie off guard. In the warm light of the kitchen, his cheeks grew a shade redder, and his scarlet vest immediately amplified the effect. He grinned at Nico and placed a hand over his chest in mock hurt--“Am I not _always_ sexy?”--but under the easy jest was a hint of shyness.

“Ya look like a hobo half the time,” Nero said. “This is… where’s Dante and what have you done with him?”

Dante pointed at Vergil with his thumb. “Ask this asshole.”

“If this is Mr. Vergil’s work, then I think it’s absolutely stellar,” she said, smiling brightly at both twins.

“A work of art,” Nico interjected with a mocking snort.

They laughed, but Kyrie could tell an effort had been made to keep Dante comfortable. It was in the little details--the rolled up sleeves or the way his hair had remained free, clean but only loosely brushed. Besides, Dante still moved like himself, shoulders straight and arms slightly open, like he was always ready to welcome the world.

“Perhaps you should immortalize it, then, Nico,” she suggested gently. 

The forgotten cellphone reemerged in a flash and Vergil’s eyebrows shot up as she pointed the camera at him. Dante laughed and threw an arm over his brother’s shoulder, startling him, before making a L shape with his fingers and hovering that above Vergil’s head. Nero snickered as Nico snapped the picture, at the precise moment where understanding dawn in Vergil’s expression. By the time she hit the capture button a second time, he’d reached abovehead and grabbed his brother’s hand, yanking hard and forcing Dante to spin around to avoid getting his arm twisted. In the third picture, Dante was on Vergil’s left, laughing under his brother’s glare.

“Be serious, Dante,” he scolded, even though they could all hear the hint of a smile in his voice. 

Dante met his gaze as he straightened up. “That’s _boring_.”

Nico’s phone gave off the click of another picture and Kyrie peeked over her shoulder again. She’d captured the twins bust-up, staring at each other. Vergil: indigo shirt buttoned all the way up, smooth grey vest, not a single slicked-back hair misplaced, a slight disapproving frown; Dante: black shirt partly open, bright red double-breasted waistcoat, messy hair with bangs coming just short of his eyes, a wide lopsided smile. If that wasn’t the most accurate image of them they’d get tonight, she didn’t know what would be.

“Thank you,” she whispered, touching Nico’s shoulder. She was forever grateful for Nico’s amazing photo skills and her willingness to keep her cellphone at the ready. 

Nico turned around, twisting her full body in the chair, her eyes shining and her grin wide--she always did this, looking at Kyrie like not even her inventions could be more amazing, and even after a year and a long talk about it, Kyrie couldn’t help but flush under the intensity of it. 

“I gotcha, girl!” Nico said, giving her a thumbs up. “You worry about running things smoothly, and I’ll make sure we got some good mementos out of it.”

“In that case, I suppose we’d best get to dinner before it cools.”

She gestured at the set table and Dante’s grin widened immediately. “Homemade pizza with no olives? The entire thing better be for me--it’s my birthday, after all.”

He snatched the closest chair up, spun it behind himself as he sat, then set aside his plate to drag the entire pizza closer. Vergil rolled his eyes behind him then calmly took his place, much closer to the sushi plate. His gaze swept the table, taking in the somewhat loose maki rolls, the unequal width of the uramaki slices, the way someone had put _way_ too much tuna compared to the rice on that one nigiri, and Kyrie could see the disbelief inch its way to the corner of his lips. His eyes flicked to her.

“Are those… also homemade?” 

“Of course,” she answered as smoothly as she could. “Amelia and Julio have been hard at work. Even Ticho helped: he made that nigiri there.” She pointed to the disproportionate one and was rewarded by Vergil’s smile. He’d grown a soft spot for the quieter child of the trio. “We asked them to stay with a neighbour for tonight, but they wanted to participate. I did promise you would give them your thoughts tomorrow…”

“Well…” Vergil heaved a deep, dramatic sigh. “It seems some sacrifices must be made, then.”

He snapped up his chopsticks and transferred a dozen morsels to his plate in the blink of an eye. Everyone quickly followed suit, passing plates, pizza slices, bottle of wine and pitcher to one another while they chose what to eat. Nero and Dante piled exactly seventeen potstickers in a plate between them and made a race out of eating them while Nico cheered on, filming. They were evenly matched and just as both reached for the last one, chopsticks slicing through the air, Vergil snatched it away and shoved it into his mouth.

“ _Vergil!_ ” they both exclaimed, equally furious.

He raised his eyebrows at them, chewed very _very_ slowly, swallowed with the thinnest of smile, then set his chopsticks down.

“I win,” he declared. 

That was as good as a declaration of war. When Vergil next reached for a maki, Nero snatched it up and shoved it into his mouth, staring at his father the whole time, unflinching. So Vergil stole a nigiri from _Nero’s_ plate while he ate the original target, only to have Dante snap it up straight from his chopsticks. Kyrie and Nico exchanged quick glances while the three men entered a staredown and simultaneously filled their glasses--not that Kyrie had any intention of drinking all this wine. Nero would’ve usually avoided this sort of food fighting, but without the children to witness misbehaviour and learn from them… this was about to get rowdy, in a distinctly Sparda way.

Food and chopsticks started flying around the table in a whirlwind as three adult men fought to get what they could in their mouths while preventing others from doing the same. Beset by two adversaries, Vergil was the first to break out demon powers, slowing time to give himself an edge. This was all Nero needed to call forth his two extra arms, and Dante muttered something about fairness and power uselessness but was soon stabbing pizza slices with clawed hands and shoving them in his mouth faster than Kyrie's eyes could track. More than once, they almost knocked their glasses over, but their collective lightning reflexes saved them all from broken glasses and interrupted fun. It was, overall, _a disaster_ , but Kyrie couldn’t tear herself away from the three men’s back-and-forth, the mocking challenges, and the collective laughter--Dante’s a wide and expansive boom, Nero’s a sharp and daring bark, Vergil’s a soft and dangerous chuckle. Through it all, Nico kept a running commentary of cheers and exclamations.

At one point Nero betrayed Dante--or perhaps Dante had already betrayed him, hard to tell--and started picking off the olives from the second pizza to fling them at his uncle. Vergil congratulated him on the splendid idea and joined in, and in a matter of seconds those were scattered across the table near Dante or on the ground. With a grin, Dante thanked them for cleaning up the pizza, grabbed it, folded it over several times as he shifted into his super-fast demon form and ate _the entire thing_. Nero and Vergil watched on, stunned, their own meal battle temporarily suspended while Dante swept a victorious gaze over the table, chewing.

"I win," he declared, mouth still full.

It was disgusting, but Kyrie’s ribs hurt from laughing so hard and she couldn’t find it in herself to protest. Vergil looked positively revulsed, which only caused Dante to open his mouth further and stick his tongue. 

“Mr. Dante!” she exclaimed, looked away with a quick laugh even as she heard the tell-tale click of Nico’s cellphone. “Do this again and I shall disqualify you.”

“Ya heard the boss. Wouldn’t wanna break the rules, would ya?” Nero put just enough challenge in the question to taunt Dante and Kyrie rewarded him with a _I see what you’re doing here_ look, but he only grinned back innocently.

Dante’s demon form vanished, red sparkles flying off him like a swarm of butterflies as his hair turned white and fluffy again, and he finished swallowing the pizza. He bowed his head in her direction. “Losers clean up, don’t they?”

She laughed again at the alarm in Nero’s and Vergil’s expression--they looked _so_ alike for a brief instant. “I certainly will not,” she said.

“This isn’t over,” Vergil protested.

“There ain’t any food left, V-man.” Nico gestured at the now-empty table. “Y’all ate everything that wasn’t in our plates already.”

Vergil’s shoulders slumped as he took in the mess they’d left behind and the complete absence of anything edible beyond drinks, then he set down his chopsticks with a resigned sigh, pushed his chair back, and picked up his plate. “We have best get to it, Nero.”

“You’re… conceding?” 

“Don’t be absurd.” He added several new plates to his plate. “If Dante self-declaring himself a winner was sufficient for it to be so, he would win everything, would he not? We ran out of dinner. This is obviously a draw.”

Dante rolled his eyes and leaned back into his chair. “Next you’re gonna say I’m not up one.”

“You’re not.”

They started bickering about it, but eventually Dante also got up and gathered the dishes. The two brothers went back and forth between kitchens and dining room, their arguments going in circles but never dying. It reminded Kyrie of the ones Nero and Nico had together.

“Are they always like this?” she asked them.

“Used to stab each other instead,” Nero said. “It’s an improvement, no?”

Vergil’s voice rose from the kitchen, distinctly more irritated now. Kyrie glanced towards the kitchen. “Perhaps you ought to stay closer to them, love, before they turn to swords once more.”

“B’sides, this is your mess too, friendo,” Nico pointed. “Hop hop, get to cleaning now!”

Nero flipped a bird at her, for which Kyrie scolded him, then he was up, four arms piling up what was left on the table. He stole a kiss from her as he went by, and she watched his back vanish in the kitchens, a soft warmth spreading through her lungs. The entire dinner had happened so fast, but she was still heady from laughing so much and from how pleased Nero had seemed. Family had always been a fraught idea for him, the wounds from the orphanage and Credo’s death too deep to erase, but he’d found a measure of happiness now and she loved the way it made him smile.

“So.” Nico had that knowing, don’t-think-you-can-fool-the-best voice, the kind she adopted whenever she caught Kyrie lying to make others more comfortable. For all her bluster and big mouth, her friend had always had quite the eye for details and a strikingly good read on Kyrie. She leaned forward and continued on in a conspiratorial tone. “Veggie sushis, lotsa water but just a sip o’ wine, and a bunch of extra mornin’ time with the toilet, huh?”

Kyrie clasped her hands together, staring straight ahead as her cheeks grew hot and red and her smile widened. “Is it that obvious?”

“Just to ya girl,” Nico said--and then the confirmation must have clicked, because her little self-satisfied tone vanished. “Holy _shit_!” She threw herself on Kyrie, arms wrapping tight around her, and Kyrie had to hurriedly hushed her so she’d keep her voice down. “Ya gonna have lil’ baby--a _baby_. Shit. Fuck, Kyrie. Ya hadn’t even told me you--”

Nico froze, and Kyrie glanced back to see Nero standing in the doorway. “She knows, huh?”

“ _Nero!_ Ya smug lil’ bastard, I can’t believe it.” Nico pressed a quick kiss on Kyrie’s forehead before scrambling up. She was halfway to Nero when he stopped her with his blue arm. 

“Keep it down, loudmouth!” he whispered angrily. “We’re telling ‘em tonight, so you gotta keep it contained for an hour or two, kay?”

“Are you kidding?” She spread her arms out. “I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that! I’m gonna explode!”

“Then go for a smoke and yell it at the clouds or somethin’.” Nero grabbed her shoulders and pushed her towards the entrance. “Ya ain’t ruining it, Nico.”

"To think you’d do this to me! No prep, no warning, no nothin’. Just ‘you gotta keep the secret, Nico’ like that ain’t the hardest shit ever.” For all of her gesticulating and protesting, Nico already had a cigarette out. She stopped halfway through the door, turning back to Kyrie, and pointing an accusatory finger at her. “We better have a girls’ night to talk about all this! I wanna hear it all.”

“I promise,” Kyrie replied firmly, then Nico was out the door, leaving an electrifying silence behind. Nero turned to her with a relieved sigh, his expression halfway between pissed and amused, and Kyrie couldn’t help but laugh at his face. “She’ll be thrilled once she realises she learned just in time to be able to watch everyone else’s face.”

Nero snorted and shook his head, before walking back to her chair, standing behind to squeeze her shoulder. “Yeah, she’ll wipe out that cellphone fast. You all right, Kyrie?”

He didn’t need to specify about what. She grew more exhausted easily these days, finding herself longing for the bed hours before her usual time. Planning the birthday party on top of other chores and her frequent bouts of nausea had demanded a lot out of her, but now that it was here, adrenaline kept her wide awake. She tilted her head back and smiled.

“I’m great. This has been wonderful.”

“Cool. We’re almost done with--”

“Dante!” 

Vergil’s voice interrupted Nero, anger threaded with a hint of laughter. Someone must have been pranked again. Nero lifted his head, rolled his eyes, and reluctantly stepped away from Kyrie. “Time to check on our children before they break the kitchens.”

Kyrie giggled. “Do that, and I’ll baby proof the living room for the next part.”

Nero’s frank laugh filled the dining room, only to be almost immediately covered by Dante’s own booming laugh and the snap of a wet towel. He muttered something about hurrying and returned to the kitchen, demanding to know what was going on with his best scolding voice. Kyrie draped an arm over her chair, allowing herself a minute or two to breathe, half-listening to the altercation. 

Her family had grown so much over the last two years, between Nico and the twins, and it was only about to get bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter added decades to my life and I hope it did to yours, too!!
> 
> Quick note, by the way, that there is a Dadgil Week happening starting November 10, 2019, and that considering the current state of my usual Dadgil AU (Disaster Dad; readers of it will know exactly what I mean), I'm gonna be preparing Rebirth!Dadgil content. And now that this chapter is *out*, I can add this: it'll be Granddadgil Week over on my end. :3 Things will happen post-Rebirth but there will be absolutely no spoilers (I will carefully dance around those m'haha).
> 
> ANYWAY. I'm hyped. Look at this goddamn happy family.


	28. Unexpected Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante and Vergil receive gifts from the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all asked for more fluff? Have more fluff!

As he sat down in Kyrie’s cozy living room, Dante promised himself one thing: next year, Lady and Trish were coming with him, demon infestation or not. They’d dragged him to a bar or invaded the _Devil May Cry_ with booze and pizza every year since they’d bribed his birth date out of Morrison, forcing him to actually enjoy himself on a day otherwise dedicated to staring at the mirror--sometimes even slicking his hair back--poking at the hole in his chest where his brother had once been. He had hated that the girls wanted to make a thing out of his birthday. Birthdays were meant to be celebrated in pairs, and if he no longer had the other half of his, then he damn well would not celebrate. But they were stubborn, and good friends, and they’d insisted on it every year to keep his mind off Vergil.

But now Vergil was back (fuck but that was still hard to believe, some days), and he was celebrating his first _joint_ birthday in well over thirty years, and he wished they’d been around to enjoy it with him. Dante leaned back on the couch, stretching an arm out behind his brother and folding one of his legs over. He was getting used to this vest-thingy, although he _had_ spilled some grease on it, and he was absolutely certain he’d get an earful from Vergil as soon as the prick spotted it. Oh well. It had been worth devouring that entire pizza in one go.

Kyrie was flitting around the room, bringing tiny one-bite desserts on a side table, setting up a water station, and rearranging decorations like he’d notice if any of it was even slightly out of place. Vergil tracked her movements, back stiff and lips pressed in a thin line, blue eyes following every back and forth. She’d caught him looking once, but the moment his lips parted for a question, she’d said “absolutely not”, and he’d fallen silent. Dante had snorted; he hadn't thought anyone could get Vergil to obey like that. 

He’d never seen much of Kyrie, hadn’t wanted to be too integral a part of Nero’s life. Kid had looked up to him, and that was just too much pressure. If he kept his distance he might seem like less of a mess, might not get attached too bad, or dwell too long on how he had a nephew, how Vergil had made a kid before he vanished, before Dante killed him. The occasional night of drinking together was more than enough; everything else, he’d tried to let Morrison handle. Maybe it’d been a mistake, but hey, just one more for the pile, wasn’t it?

Two fingers touched his knee and he almost jerked up. His gaze met Vergil’s, who tilted his head to the side. “It’s unlike you to brood, brother,” he whispered.

Dante laughed and plastered a smile back on his lips. “What’s that word even mean?”

“It means I need to buy you a dictionary as a gift,” Vergil replied, haughty mockery seeping into his voice.

Dante snorted and punched his shoulder, but before he could come up with a suitable reply, Nico stormed into the living room with a huge grin. “Did I hear someone say gift? ‘Cause it’s about time we get started!” She plopped down on the other side of Vergil and elbowed him. “Took ya everything to get one more year, V-man, but you made it! How’s it feel?”

Vergil stiffened--thinking of the years lost, or of Nero’s arm maybe--and Dante leaned forward, saving him from an answer. “Hey, Nico, you got any time for me tomorrow? Something’s been up with my girls and I wanted an expert’s eye on ‘em. Ivory just gives this weird lil’ sound she didn’t used to.”

“Woah really?” Her eyes widened in shock and she leaned over Vergil as if Dante had the two guns on him. Vergil hissed at her proximity, causing her to fall back immediately with a muttered apology. “Ya can come tomorrow mornin’. Crack o’ dawn if ya want, and I’ll check ‘em up.”

“Thanks, Nico. I wouldn’t be half the devil hunter I am without these two babies.”

Nero walked it and snorted at that. “Aw, I bet Lady and Trish would love hearin’ you say that about ‘em.”

He was carrying two fairly large boxes wrapped in gift paper--one blue, and one red. Easy to tell which was his, but part of Dante couldn’t believe these dorks had gotten him a gift. That was… well, that was also a first, unless one counted booze and pizza as gifts. Lady and Trish didn’t bring back wrapped stuff with cute lil’ bows, or cake, or any of that stuff; they’d understood that would’ve felt too much like an actual birthday party. Today was one, though! And even better than getting a gift was the fact his was absolutely, definitely bigger than Vergil’s.

Dante elbowed his brother with a grin. “Hey hey, guess who’s got the bigger box?”

“Are you still five, Dante?” he replied, but Dante would’ve sworn there was a hint of jealousy in there. “The French have a saying about pots and unguents.”

“The French are full of shit.”

Vergil rolled his eyes, but Nico was laughing hard enough for the two of them.

“The two of you really are children, huh?” Nero asked, setting down the boxes. “What’s next? Duel to know who goes first?”

“No need,” Vergil replied. “Dante always went first, because he was the youngest, and those always went first, don’t they?”

“Cripes, Vergil, are you still bitter about that?” Dante hadn’t needed to ask. Under the pretense of a joke, Vergil _totally_ was, and it was the most hilarious thing he’d heard in ages. He had always been so pissy about board games stating the youngest could start, arguing that six minutes shouldn’t make that big a difference despite the fact he was always the first one to bring them up and call Dante his little brother. Dante burst out laughing. “You wanna be picky about it, you were probably dead for more than six minutes, no? You go first.”

It was like a cold wind blew through the living room, and, well, all right, maybe he shouldn’t have gone there, but if Dante couldn’t joke about the worst of his life, he’d be stuck thinking about it seriously. Then Vergil chuckled, a soft sound that completely washed away the tension.

“Nice try, Dante,” he said, “but I will always be older than you. Death is now a part of my lived experience. Now open your gift. I can feel Nico dying by my side.”

“I ain’t dying!” Nico protested.

“Then stop fidgeting. At this rate, you’ll wear a hole in the couch and we will need to buy a new one.”

Dante couldn’t help but note the casual ‘we’ Vergil had just dropped there, while talking of Nero’s and Kyrie’s furniture. It was striking, all the ways his brother had integrated the household. Did he even notice? They’d never developed any routine at the _Devil May Cry_ \--to be fair, Dante didn’t _want_ routines, he loved doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted--even though Vergil had carved a few habits with the jukebox and the cleaning. Enough that Dante had missed them, after he’d left. This was different, though, and really fucking sweet to see, even if it did make him feel a little left behind. Was it egoistical, to hope Vergil would eventually return from Fortuna? 

“Dante.”

Once again, Vergil was softly calling him back from his thoughts. He really needed to focus on the now--on how great this entire birthday was!--and let the future rest. All this thinking forward wasn't like him, and it didn't suit him. Dante grabbed his big red gift box, grinned at how _heavy_ it actually was, and dragged it closer.

"All right, let's get this party started!" He tore into the paper, his smile widened at Vergil's irritated huff by his side, and once he'd realized the cardboard box would have no indication about what it contained, he opened the top and peered inside.

He had to remove a fair amount of bubble wrap, but it looked like the top of a… miniature jukebox? That's what the colourful neons screamed, anyway. Dante eagerly reached inside, retrieving the object, and his chest swelled when he discovered he was right. It _was_ a jukebox, except it was only three feet tall, and its front was an elegant wooden panel painted with-- _holy shit_. 

Dante’s breath caught as he took in the beautiful _Devil May Cry_ letters, carved as holes into the wood, and the absolute gorgeous painting below, splashes of bright colours depicting Lady, Trish, and him leaping into battle. Lady was crouched on the bottom left corner, Kalina Ann firmly on her shoulder, a salvo of rockets shooting out of it, towards the top right corner. Trish seemed to fly through said rockets, electricity running through her arms, gathering around the pistol in her hand, pointed upward. Dante was just above her, red coat flaring, the Devil Sword on his back and his two pistols at the ready. There were no lines to the drawing, just careful use of colour, and the visible brush strokes turned it into an incredibly dynamic piece. Dante traced himself for a moment, awed by the vividness of it, then turned it over. On the back was all three Spardas, their backs to each other in a small triangles, their respective swords at the ready as they prepared to face an unknown enemy together. In the space above them, their sketched devil triggers seemed to meld into one another.

One side for his best friends, the two ladies who’d carried him through most of his adult life, and one side for his family, now reunited. Dante was trying real damn hard to get the lump out of his throat, but shit, this was high quality art and it wrapped around his soul like a soft blanket.

“So, huh… you like it?” Nero’s question was strangely hesitant.

“You bet! This is fucking gorgeous.” He turned it back to the front, keeping both of his hands on the side of the heavy jukebox, and admired the artwork again. 

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Dante. Nero wouldn’t believe me.” Under Kyrie’s usual softness was a hint of smugness here, and when Dante glanced up, she was smirking at her boyfriend, who’d grown a deep shade of red.

“Wait. Wait wait _wait_. Nero painted that?” He pointed to the art, and received three answers at once: Kyrie’s enthusiastic ‘yes!’, Nico’s scoffing ‘well, duh!’, and Nero’s own shy nod. Dante’s chest grew several sizes bigger, enough that he couldn’t help his loud whooping. “That’s _amazing_ , kid. Shit, I had no idea you had that kinda skills!”

Nero leaned back into his chair, running a hand through his hair. “It really ain’t all that much! Nico did all the jukebox-thingy, ya know!”

Someone very much wanted the subject changed, it seemed, and Dante’s urges to tease Nero battled with his curiosity about the jukebox itself. 

"All right," Dante said, setting it down. "It looks amazing, but what does it do?"

"Push a button and find out, Dante," Nero answered, a challenge in his voice.

"Feels like I'm about to get pranked again, but all right, I'll play." 

The front of the jukebox had a series of buttons, three of which were lit red. His hand hovered above them as he considered his options. There didn’t seem to be a pattern in which one was lit--too bad, he would’ve loved to know which one he was supposed to push first, just to make sure he picked another one. With a little wiggle of his fingers, Dante hit the middle-ish one and leaned back. The jukebox lit up, the blue neon curved around its top and making up the _Devil May Cry_ letters blazing to life, and two familiar voices drifted out of it.

“Hey Dante!” Trish greeted.

“Happy birthday, loser,” Lady added. The sound was great, way better than on his old phone.

“Hey babes,” he replied. Nero snickered, Nico burst out laughing, and the two voices just kept on talking like he hadn’t said anything.

“Nico told us you were getting dragged all the way into the modern world this year!” Trish exclaimed. “I mean, _voicemail_? Who would have ever thought.”

“It’s like voicemails haven’t been around for decades or anything. One day I’ll get you a cellphone, Dante. Even your dumbass brother caught up to that quicker than you did.” 

Everyone glanced at Vergil then, who only raised his eyebrows. “She’s right.”

Before Dante could argue against the pointlessness of it--what was he gonna do, answer in the middle of a battle? That’d totally ruin his style--Trish went on.

“By the way, Dante, since you ditched us poor girls in to go celebrate with your other family in Fortuna this year, we just _had_ to wash our sadness in a shopping spree--on your tab, of course.”

“Let Vergil know he’ll get an invoice for compensation for emotional distress tomorrow. It can be his birthday gift! I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

“You wish him a good birthday from the two of--”

“ _Hey_ ,” Lady interrupted, “Don’t speak for me.”

“You can make me pay later,” Trish replied, an unmistakable playfulness in her voice. These two would be celebrating plenty without him tonight, Dante knew, and the soft laugh at the bottom of his throat since the start of the message bubbled up.

Lady huffed. “Fine, whatever. Enjoy yourselves. We’re taking good care of the _Devil May Cry_ and all those nice demons around.”

“See you soon, Dante,” Trish added. “You _are_ missing out on a lot of fun around here, and it always feels like something’s off without your terrible one-liners.”

The phone clicked, and as Dante’s chuckle trailed off, silence returned to the living room. He wasn’t even sure to start with all this jukebox-and-voicemail thing, so instead he turned to Vergil, sitting right beside him.

“What’s that about invoices? Lady’s mailing _you_ stuff all the way to Fortuna?”

“It’s called an e-mail, Dante.” His mild condescension triggered Nico’s booming laugh, and the others soon joined in. “But yes, Lady has been sending me invoices, though I daresay she takes an inordinate amount of pleasure in labelling her services in the least professional manner possible. Half of what I receive is clearly a jest meant to waste my time.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like it.” Good news, too. If Lady hated his guts too badly, she wouldn’t be sending Vergil invoices, even as a joke. Dante tapped his mini-jukebox, its bright lights now off again, but before he hit another button to see what _that_ would do, he looked up at Nero. “Isn’t gettin’ me a voicemail more like a gift for y’all than for me?”

Nero didn’t get a chance to answer before Nico jumped into the conversation, leaping off the couch to walk around the jukebox, crouch behind it, and set two proud hands on top of it. “Hey-oh, this ain’t just any old voicemail, I’ll have you know! It’s a unique piece, designed and constructed by yours truly! But here’s the catch: we made it into a game. No chronological messages for you, Legendary Demon Hunter. I rigged the phone in it so it’d distribute randomly on the buttons, and it clears its memory after three weeks. Whole thing isn’t meant for business; it’s like fun russian roulette but with news from your peeps!”

“You’re asleep or huntin’ half the time we call,” Nero added, “but, huh… we think you’ll wanna have news from us soon. This makes it easier.”

Sometimes he probably also just didn’t bother to answer the phone. Depended on whether or not he was in mood, or how likely it was to be Morrison with a boring job. Not so much recently, though. They were right, he’d been a little more keen on picking up the damn thing if he thought it might be news from Fortuna.

“S’long as none of ya expect me to call back,” he declared, putting a hand over his chest. “That’s too much pressure for this old man.”

“We aren’t fools,” Nero replied.

“If you say so.” Dante shrugged, but he couldn’t maintain the nonchalant attitude for long. He picked up the jukebox a second time, examining the details of the painting once more. It was so _beautiful_. He’d met with Nero here and there over the last five years, but there was so much he didn’t know yet about the kid. Maybe news on the voicemail weren’t such a bad idea at all. “Thanks, y’all. Can’t wait to hear all the silly shit you’re gonna leave me as messages.”

And then it was Vergil’s turn, and everyone looked at him.

 

###

****

Vergil wished he could open his gift in private. Watching Dante tear into the wrapping like a child had struck a deep chord of nostalgia, and if he was honest with himself, the whole day was progressively thinning down his ability to properly control his feelings. It all felt like a dream, an impossible illusion he ought to fight before it shattered and left him stranded without his usual defenses. It was entirely irrational, but past experiences all taught him not trust in his future, and he had laughed so much and so freely today, his mind was convinced his time would soon be up. The afternoon by the waterside softly sharing pieces of his scars with Dante… the easy back-and-forth while convincing his brother to dress up, or his genuine smile when he finally saw himself in the mirror… the delirious food war with brother and son… even this quiet teasing of Dante’s technological failings--this couldn't really be his life, could it? It left him so _content_ it unsettled him, and he wished he could sit back and breathe in the moment--let it sink in, solidifying as undeniably real and his--as he had yesterday, in the Mithis Forest with Nero. 

But everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to open his own gift, so instead he allowed himself one last look at the striking depiction of Dante, Nero, and him, on the back of the message jukebox--at his _family_ , who stood by him despite everything--and he clung to their presence at his side to push back the fear sticking to his mind. He had to believe they had all the power they needed, that nothing could touch them if they stood together. 

Dante nudged his foot, bringing his thoughts back to the box in his hand, a rectangular shape a few feet long and about two feet wide, wrapped in a dark blue, starry sky paper. Vergil unwrapped it, sliding his fingers along the seams on both ends to carefully remove the tape and unfold the paper, ignoring the amused snort this drew from Dante. At least this way, the wrapping could be reused, and besides, he enjoyed the challenge of damaging it as little as possible. Soon he had freed the box, and as it was a nondescript cardboard one, Vergil promptly found the top and lifted it, before the tightness in his heart or the shakiness in his hands became too much.

Then his heart stopped.

He recognized the shape of a violin case instantly, and his gaze flicked up to Kyrie, who surely was the mastermind behind this idea. She was beaming, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her freckles more evident now than ever, and that in itself was confirmation enough. Vergil returned his full attention to the breathtaking case, on which Nero had also painted. Vergil’s throat and chest all constricted painfully as he reached down to retrieve the case, his gaze drinking in the details.

Unlike Dante’s jukebox, Nero hadn’t depicted a scene in quick, lively brushes, instead creating a painstakingly detailed rendering of the Yamato and its scabbard. The katana ran the length of the case, every single engraving reproduced on it, its pommel so life-like Vergil couldn’t help but run his fingers over it, half-expecting the familiar texture under his fingers. Where the case widened, the shape of two blue dark blue wings spread out from behind, as if emerging from the shadows to surround the blade. Those were in more evocative lines, yet Vergil had no trouble recognizing his own devil wings, and as his gaze followed the length of the Yamato, he found the end of his tail, too. It was _beautiful_ , and the tightness in his chest loosened as pride filled him at Nero’s sheer talent--a silly feeling, truly, considering how little _he_ had to do with the hours of hard work that must have gone into this sort of artistic skill. Slowly, he turned the case over, and his smile widened as he found a second depiction of the Yamato there, this time wreathed in blue flames, the wings around it feathery and shining blue. One side for him, and one side for his son.

“Nero…” he whispered, the name escaping it before he’d even realized he was about to utter it. 

“Wait till we force you to play b’fore you thank us.” Nero tried to sound casual, but the roughness in his voice betrayed him. 

“How did you know?” In all of his training with Kyrie, he’d never mentioned the violin specifically, keeping the knowledge close to him. He had several memories of himself practicing, mostly alone, and a few of performing in front of the family as a child, but he knew more were missing--of music alone with his mother, quiet moments shared only between the two of them.

“I told ‘em,” Dante answered. “They asked about music and you, so I gave ‘em the tip. Was surprised _you_ had brought it up, though.”

“You must not have heard Kyrie sing, then,” Vergil said, knowing exactly what door he was opening, and that he might regret it down the line. And indeed, Nico jumped on the opportunity. 

“Ya should do a duo! I know you make sneak music together at night. S’bout time we get to see some of that good shit, too!”

Was it supposed to be a secret? Vergil had never mentioned the training session on his own, finding solace in the privacy of these quiet moments with Kyrie, but he’d expected her to share more freely with Nico and Nero--and she must have, since neither seemed overly surprised. Yet she blushed now, as if caught red-handed. Perhaps it was the perspective of a performance more than the discussion of their musical training sessions. 

“I haven’t touched a violin in decades, Nico,” he said.

“Ten bucks says your muscle memory’s gonna betray ya,” she retorted, crossing her arms.

“It’s unlikely to be tuned, either.”

“Should be close enough,” Nero said. “We asked them to do it, so you’d have only minor adjustments the first time ‘round. Sorry pal.”

Dante slapped Vergil’s back hard and fast, startling him. “Looks like ya ain’t gettin’ out of a quick show with the missus. It’ll be just like old times, Vergil.”

His brother had no idea how close to the truth he was, considering the songs part of Kyrie’s register. Out of arguments, Vergil turned to Kyrie, who let out a resigned sigh. 

“We’ll retire to prepare after dessert. For now…” Her hand slid into Nero’s, and her smile tightened. A strange silence passed over them, like a single breath drawn simultaneously, and Vergil’s grip tightened on his violin’s case. He’d been about to open it and check the actual instrument, but something in Kyrie and Nero had shifted, slipping away from the evening’s more casual conversation. 

“We know this is Mr. Dante’s and Mr. Vergil’s birthday evening, but Nero and I… we have a bit of news, and we wanted to share it while we had everyone together.” Kyrie grew several shades of red deeper and ran a nervous hand through her bangs. “Saviour… I spent so long thinking of this moment and now I don’t know how to say it.”

Nero leaned in and kissed the side of her head, before whispering, “Ya can be blunt. I would be.”

This drew a laugh out of Kyrie, and she nudged him back. “You always are.” 

Then she turned back to Dante and Vergil, pausing only for one last breath to steady herself, but even that brief instant felt like an excruciating wait for Vergil, hanging breathless to their exchange, his heart hammering as his mind ran through hundreds of possibilities, each worse than the first. They were in a good mood, it had to be good news, yet he couldn’t help the dread coiling at the bottom of his stomach. He had never been good with surprises. Kyrie squeezed Nero’s hand, and Vergil braced himself.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “Seven weeks, now.”

The world seemed to fade around Vergil as Dante jumped to his feet. His brother's voice felt distant and muted as he exclaimed "Kyrie! That's wonderful!" He was a red blur crossing the living room, picking her up from her seat and spinning her. Kyrie's laugh was lost to Vergil, buried under the ringing in his ears.

A child. _A grandchild._  

The ground tilted under him, his chest squeezing, his head hot and dizzy. Vergil could barely believe in his life _now_ \--in his reunited family, in having a son--the possibility of a fragile baby entering it, of his son having his own child… Air had left his lungs, and he could feel everybody's stares turning to him, waiting expectantly for his reaction, and it was _too much_. He didn't know--couldn't cope--

Vergil snapped time to a freeze. He was stumbling out of the stifling room before he really thought about it, just needed _out_ of there, to go somewhere he could breathe and think again, where his reality could rearrange itself around Kyrie and Nero having a child. When time unwound itself in the living room, he was long gone. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: *has a Big Emotion*  
> Vergil: *yeets himself away*
> 
> ALL THIS FLUFF WAS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. (I'm kidding, we'll be tuning back into fluff land after this is deal with haha)


	29. Redefining Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil presents apologies and explanations.

Nero stared at the space where Vergil had been a second ago, barely aware of Dante setting Kyrie down by his side. He'd been watching Vergil, no one but Vergil, his heart hammering and his hands sweaty--had seen his father's eyes widen before he clamped down on his expression, and had felt the roiling demon energy. Then he was gone, leaving Nero with nothing but bitter anger.

"I'll fucking kill him," he declared, blue wings flaring behind his back.

"Woah, hey--" Dante reached for his shoulder, but Nero slapped his entire forearm away. 

"Nero." Kyrie's voice was ice on his fire, but he caught the dangerous strands in it. Her smile had turned crisp and tight-lipped, and fury burned in her gorgeous eyes. "I will wait with his violin, so we might tune it for our demonstration."

 _And I will want my turn_ went unsaid, but Nero got the message. It calmed him to some extent, to know she was just as angry as he was. Under all her kindness, Kyrie had some hard lines you best not cross, and Vergil was about to learn that.

"You got it, love," he promised.

Dante sighed. "He's on the roof--always loved high places."

"I know."

That surprised his uncle, but Nero didn't have time to explain--didn't really have an explanation, either. Ever since Fortuna Castle, he'd been able to sense Vergil's presence if his father was close enough, especially if he had the Yamato in hand. Whatever was going on with the soul-sharing between Vergil and his blade probably had something to do with it, but that was more thinking than Nero cared to do about it. He stepped outside, then got up the rooftop with two quick jumps and a flaring of his wings.

Whether he heard the thump of Nero's boots or could feel him, too, Vergil stiffened at his arrival. He stood at the edge, ramrod straight, hands clamped around the Yamato's pommel, eyes on the cityscape below. Nero hovered where he'd landed, all of his anger coalescing in his throat until it blocked out the words he'd meant to shout. When they finally came, they were a whisper studded with righteous frustration.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Silence stayed his only answer for painfully long seconds. Vergil had barely twitched at his voice. Nero scoffed, taking one step forward, power coursing through his body, sizzling just beneath the skin. _"Look at me!"_

Vergil did turn, then, his movements slow and stiff--controlled, as if he needed a tight hold on them. "Nero…"

Nero scowled at the soft, strangled uttering of his name--that was definitely the Nero of Hurt, and damn but Vergil had no right to it. _He_ was hurt? He'd fucking fled the living room!

"What's it this time? We not good enough for the Sparda line?" He'd thought Vergil's offer to train him with the Yamato meant he'd accepted him, that he thought of him as an actual heir now, but maybe he'd just had his head up his ass big time--hard not to think so, considering how tightly his father clutched his katana now, after being told Nero had a child on the way. Nero’s wings flared at his back, and his hair whipped about, lengthening ever so slightly. "I thought--I don't know why the fuck I expected some normal reaction outta you. Like joy or-or some pride!"

"Nero."

This time, Vergil pronounced his name with force, wrapping it in a depth of feeling and certainty Nero hadn't heard before. A new way to say it, unnamed yet. Before Nero could recover from the shock, Vergil warped across the bridge, teleporting right in front of him. Nero froze as his father cupped his face, gently despite his shaky urgency, his thumb brushing against Nero's cheek as his fingers slid through his hair. Pale blue eyes met his, a storm of anguish dancing through them, and Nero could barely breathe. Vergil _never_ came so close unless they were fighting.

"For most of my youth, I thought I knew pride. I had mastered my demon form, learned to wield the Yamato like no other, survived Mundus' hordes and prepared to claim my father's power. I was foolish and arrogant, and my pride in the name of Sparda kept me alive, moving. It was my diamond core: solid, indestructible." Vergil hashed out the words in a cold, sharp voice, an obvious sneer even at himself. Then the hard lines of his expression softened. "And yet… _nothing_ in the whole damn world has ever filled me with pride like _you_ , Nero. It redefines the very meaning of it."

Nero had lost track of the ground under his feet. The thumb on his cheeks burned him, the contact alien and tender and _so bold_ . He couldn't believe Vergil was touching him, rambling about pride when he'd just ran away, how every word he said tore through Nero, claws reaching for his most hidden fears, soothing them with such intensity it _hurt_. He'd have fought every demon in Hell to make Vergil _accept_ him--to prove himself--and now his father was… No. This was too much.

"Nothing, huh?" Nero spat, his head spinning, his entire body wired for one, single thing.

The demon power already swirling within him burst out, distorting timespace around him briefly as his skin turned hard and teal, wine red ridges sprouted over his shoulders, growing towards his glowing blue chest, and his shimmering blue fist flew out. He caught Vergil full on with it and the force of the blow ripped him away, leaving Nero's cheek cold where a thumb had been. Vergil responded to his burst of power with one of his own, demon energy flowing out as leathery dark blue wings sprouted behind his back. He snapped them open and stopped his flight with them, landing right at the edge of the roof, stabilizing himself with a long, swooshing tail.

"Prove it," Nero demanded.

Fire danced in Vergil's eyes as he straightened up, metaphorical at first, then blue and lively as he responded to Nero's full demon form with his own. White hair turned into sweeping horns, skin sizzled with power until it was all blue scales and ridges, and the intense flow of power brutally washing out of Vergil caught Nero off guard, sealing his breath. 

"Very well."

Vergil launched forward with a great flap of his wings, directly at Nero, who dropped into a ready stance. His father shimmered out for a moment, and the quality of time seemed to change around them, slowing down. The very air turned dark and blue, but Nero focused on his inner sense of Vergil's location and brought his two wing-arms forward, clawed fingers clasping down on Vergil's arms. His father met his eyes, smirked, and left behind a blue doppelganger. By the time Nero understood what was happening, Vergil had reappeared behind him, his tail wrapping around Nero's ankle and yanking him off his feet. Nero gasped as he fell down, only to be caught again--was Vergil back in front? How had he moved so fast?

Nero's skull buzzed with the question until he realized Vergil had stopped moving entirely, arms tight around Nero, wings curled over the two of them as if to hide them from sight, his tail releasing the ankle with a gentle flick. Nero had fought Vergil over and over since his return from Hell but he'd never seen him unleash this sort of speed and power--and all of it… to catch him into a hug?

"I don't want to fight," Vergil whispered, his voice almost twisted into a growl by his demonic form. He released the trigger, claws and scales vanishing as he turned back into a far more frail human body, leaving only his tail, wrapped near Nero’s legs just as Vergil’s arms held him. "I apologize for fleeing. I was… overwhelmed."

Nero's anger leaked right out of him, as if squeezed out by Vergil's hug, and he dropped his own demon form with a shower of blue sparks--all but his two wings, which he hesitantly wrapped around Vergil. Nero leaned into the hug, squeezing his eyes shut against the slow rise of tears. _He_ _wouldn't cry, damnit._ Then he heard Vergil's own shuddering breath, and he knew they were both working very hard towards the same goal. 

"It fucking hurt, asshole," Nero said, his voice rough.

"I know."

"W-what you said about pride…"

"I meant every word."

Nero fell silent and closed his eyes. He focused on the tightness of Vergil's arms around him, the soft warmth spreading through him, a salve on a longing that had burned so long and bright it was a part of Nero now, unfailingly tied into him. For years, Credo had been his model, a figure he wanted to strike pride in, to be worthy of. His death had left a void even deeper than before, and while Vergil had inched his way around it, the jagged nature of their relationship had left the hole gaping, unfilled.

But Vergil was proud of him--so fucking proud--and it felt like, maybe, Nero could heal this wound at last.

"Thanks… dad.”

For a time, quiet silence stretched between them, like a depression following the crackling tension from moments ago. Nero let it sink in, basking still in Vergil's aggressive pride in him, even if he'd almost had to tear the admission out of his old man. He had no idea how much time passed before he reluctantly wiped at his nose and scuffed his feet. 

"Ya know… one day this child will wanna know about his grandma, and I still got no idea what to tell them."

The question came unprompted, even for him. It was like his mouth had wrenched it from the depths of his brain, where Nero had firmly intended to leave it be. Part of him didn't care anymore--what would it change, anyway? But there was a story there, one that could tell him more about Vergil, maybe, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't love the asshole as much as he sometimes hated him. Still, Nero pointedly looked away from Vergil while he waited for a response besides the man's initial sharp intake of breath.

"You could tell them she had a keen sense of observation and even sharper wits; that she liked keeping everything in order; that she knew what she wanted, and how to get it." He trailed off, and Nero let those little bits of information sink in, wrapping them into his heart. She was family only in name, had never been into his life, except to abandon him, but Vergil's voice was threaded with a measure of respect, enough to douse part of Nero's resentment at her decision. Vergil sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "There is… more to it than that, of course, things I wouldn't tell them."

It was an opening, Nero knew, and he grabbed it before he could think better of it. "Things you'd tell me?"

Vergil hesitated. It wasn't hard to figure out he might never have told anyone this--when would he have, when so much of his life had been spent in Hell? But now that the question was out, Nero was dying for the answer, and every second of delay was a new knot in his chest, until he could hardly breathe. 

"I didn't love her, Nero--not how you love Kyrie. I've never loved anyone in such a fashion, nor do I care to, I think." He tapped his fingers on the Yamato, either lost in his memories or searching for the right words. "Until I first saw her, I hadn't ever wanted to kiss anyone either, or anything remotely like it. She changed that. I’d never felt attraction like this before. I was… curious, I guess, and she was eager. We…" He coughed awkwardly. Oh boy. Nero pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh at his unease. This _was_ the man who’d hidden Dante’s porn, truly. "We fumbled through it. A few times. I'm afraid there's very little else to this story."

"There didn't need to be," Nero said, and he was surprised by how steady his voice turned how--by how calm he felt. He hadn't needed his mom to be anyone special. Between the orphanage, the loss of Kyrie's parents, and even the mess of a relationship he was building with Vergil, he'd long since learned blood parents didn't mean much. His family had always been Kyrie first and foremost, then Nico and the foster kids; fitting Vergil and Dante into that picture was a new step, a meaningful one, but being all Spardas or whatever, that was just the excuse. Like the glue they'd used to stick to each other. Not that he expected either of the twins remotely agreed, but they hadn't chosen each other the way Nero had chosen them. "I don't think I could've handled another big secret heritage or some shit."

The jest drew a sharp laugh out of Vergil, and he gave the Yamato a quick twirl. "I must concur. The Sparda name comes with enough challenges on its own."

Nero snorted at the sheer pride in Vergil's voice. It was kind of ludicrous, considering how much misery it'd brought him, but Nero understood that sort of defiance. Sometimes you needed to love the things for which people gave you shit twice as hard, just to compensate. 

Part of Nero wanted to stay there and chat, prod Vergil with a few more questions--especially about the way he'd phrased all that stuff about not being in love, 'cause that sounded like shit Nico had said once while she was super high, only she'd simultaneously been way less coherent about it, and had listed names for it. Labels and stuff like that. But that could wait for another time.

"Ya gotta go back downstairs. Kyrie's waitin' for ya with your violin. You better treat her right, too, or we're goin' right back to kickin' your ass."

Vergil's attention snapped back to Nero, his thin smile vanishing instantly. "Kyrie," he whispered, with a tightness to his voice Nero would bet was guilt--good. "Of course."

He ran off, leaping over the edge without another word, a man set on a mission. Nero wondered if he had the slightest idea what awaited him, then grinned and sat down. The night was chill, and he was gonna take a moment to enjoy both the new pieces of information about Vergil he had, and the utterly baffling, incredible thought of _redefining pride_ for his arrogant ass of a father a moment longer.

****

###

 

"I trusted you."

Until the words whipped through the air, slamming into him with more power than Nero or him could ever yield, Vergil had never truly understood what it meant to anger Kyrie. He'd seen her be curt with the children once or twice, of course, and he'd listened to a heartfelt rant after she'd witnessed and snapped at someone being rude to a cashier, but this was different. It was personal, and when he stepped into her room, furious hazelnut eyes pinned him to the floor. Demonic power might not flow through Kyrie as her anger rose, but the tension in her poise spread to the whole room. 

"Nero and I--" he started.

"This isn't about you and Nero!" she snapped, swiping the air with her arm. "Of course you worked it out, slamming into each other and butting big demon horns or-or whatever. This is about _me_. Do you have any idea the endurance it takes to stay calm while you Sparda boys slash and cut at each other? When it feels like the whole house is sizzling from some invisible force and just one spark away from exploding? Do you know what it's like, Mr. Vergil, to be the one who stays behind, the one who just _accepts_?” 

Tears started streaming down her face, and she wiped them angrily. He remained rooted there, silent, struck by the sheer strength of Kyrie’s feelings, transforming each word into a blade of its own.

“I had to accept Nero choosing demon hunting, leaving me for days sometimes and returning covered in blood, as if demons hadn't already torn my parents away from me; had to accept him disappearing from the hospital to run after you; had to accept that the demon who'd ripped his arm off was his father and accept that this _somehow_ didn't make him a monster, that he might live here, under my roof.” She paused, taking a moment to steady her shaking voice. “I have been accepting _a lot_ of things, Mr. Vergil, many of which were even my ideas, and all with a smile and reassuring words, because I know they are for the best, and I possess the emotional fortitude to absorb such blows. But I am _tired._ "

Vergil stared, at a loss about what to do. His hand found the Yamato again, and although the familiarity brought him comfort, he wished he had thought to leave it in his own room, for Kyrie's sake. Before he could find words to push past the tight knot of guilt in his throat, she took a shuddering breath and glared back.

"I love Nero, and by extension I love those he chooses as family. And you… you let me think you understood--contributing to the household tasks, staying up to train with me, offering to leave if I needed the space, forcing Dante to dress up tonight… I-I wanted this birthday to be perfect, to be normal to some extent, just this once, just for myself. And you _ran_." A small, bitter laugh escaped her, and her shoulders slumped, like she no longer had the energy to hold herself together. The tears still hadn't stopped coming. "It's not even my birthday. I'm being silly, but it was going so well… This is so selfish of me, I--"

"Kyrie." Vergil cut her off firmly; he couldn't accept this shift into self-blame.

"It's probably the pregnancy," she went on.

"Kyrie," he said again, and this time he crossed the room, to set a hand on her shoulder. "I apologize for my brutal departure. You deserved better. But, please, don't think of tonight as a failure. I do not recall being as happy as I have been today--thanks to you, to your efforts.” That had been the issue, hadn’t it? Vergil paused, searching for words that could convey the problem. “I… I fear I have only ever learned to buffer and control pain. This… joy… it makes me afraid. I couldn't bear losing what I have here, in Fortuna--not just Nero. You're family, too, Kyrie."

She leaned into him without warning, a soft sob her only response, and Vergil tensed despite himself. When he had hugged Nero, demon power had been flowing through him, and he hadn't felt the telltale signs of his aversion to touch. It had been such a relief, not to have his mind screaming danger at him, to be able to just hold his son in peace. Kyrie's contact sent sparks crawling across his skin and a low buzz at the base of his skull, but those? Those, he knew how to buffer, so he gritted his teeth and gently wrapped his arms around her and held on while she cried. It was awkward, and she was definitely putting an inordinate amount of snot on his vest, but he kept his peace and battled the building alarms in his mind and the urge to push back until she did so herself. He owed her this much.

"This is… not how I envisioned this talk going," she muttered. "I'm still angry!"

She didn't sound like it, but Vergil knew better than to point it out. "It seems only fair," he said mildly, "but perhaps, for now, we should get back on track with this… normal family evening? I do look forward to reproducing my worst musical mistakes on a violin and be deprived of my 'summoned swords aren't instruments' excuse to justify them."

"You _do not_ get to complain, Mr. Vergil. If you hadn't brought up my singing…" Kyrie gestured at the air, and while her eyes were still puffed up and rimmed with red from crying, she was smiling again. She huffed, stepped back, and found a seat on the bed, next to the violin case. 

Vergil followed, running his fingers over the beautiful artwork one more time, his chest swelling with pride again. He had caught Nero sketching while at home before, had seen how well he painted on Dante's prank model, but he had never imagined… Part of him wanted to set the Yamato next to the drawing and compare, but he resisted the temptation and unclipped the case. His breath caught when he finally laid eyes on the violin inside, dyed a blue so dark it was almost black, with a few elegant silver patterns engraved on it. By his side, Kyrie chuckled.

"I'm sorry, I was so nervous about our news, we never gave you time to open the case."

"It is no trouble at all." He gently lifted it out, running his fingers along the smooth wood, his throat tightening. He had been a child the last time he'd played, his life a peaceful succession of games with Dante, practice sword with Sparda, and now-erased musical evenings with Eva. Vergil flattened his palm against the violin before the tremor in his hands became too visible, took one deep breath to steady himself, then lifted the instrument and set it against his neck. It would be fine. Even if it didn't come back easily, no one here would care. "Let's tune it, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOUND THE ALARMS, THEY FINALLY HUGGED. It just took them more than 100,000 words hahahaha
> 
> These, btw, are the extent of the headcanons about Nero's mom, at least for Rebirth, and how they line up with my own aro/grey-ace Vergil ones. 
> 
> Anyway I love love this chapter so much. Vergil's bit about Redefining Pride TM just feeds me every time I reread it, and I hope it fed y'all, too. Next week is fully back to good fluff, and all my headcanons about Sparda Family and Music!


	30. Sparda's Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone winds down with music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has come for me to spill a gazillion headcanons about Spardas and music! Also everyone left Nico and Dante alone in a room without realizing the amount of Unsupervised Chaos Energy that created.

Old houses really had terrible sound proofing, which might have been a problem if Dante and Nico weren't so utterly shameless. Neither of them had bothered to close the windows when Nero had first yelled, instead silently making faces at each other. Vergil was harder to hear, his voice low and raw, and Dante grumbled when a gust of wind stole the end of whatever he was saying about pride. Nico scrambled to get closer to the window, but it was already too late. Whatever it was, demonic energy roiled out of them now, and heavy thumps reverberated through the house.

"I think they're fightin'!" Nico exclaimed in a very loud whisper, before pushing her head against the screen, as if she could see anything from down there.

"Yup." In demon form, no less. He could feel their power in the living room. Dante dropped in the couch Nero and Kyrie had occupied. "S'good. That's how we work shit out in the family."

Nico turned to him with a snort. "Y'all sure are a bunch of weirdos."

Dante flashed her a grin. "Like ya never sing lullaby to your weapons or some shit."

"Who told you that?!"

That had been a wild guess, just to rile her up, but t'was nice to have some confirmation. He wasn't gonna mock her, not when he used to say goodnight to Rebellion before every nap. Dante didn't get a chance to reply--above them, the demonic auras had suddenly resorbed, leaving heavy silence behind. He glanced up.

"Did they stop?" Nico asked; Dante nodded. "Is that bad?"

"Not a clue. Vergil and I never stopped fighting. But Nero's… different."

"He's a softie all right," Nico said. She stopped, ears perking, but no words could be made out of the muffled voices from above, so she gave up with a huff. "Ya should've seen him after the two of you dumped him to go traipsin' in Hell. He got real sadgry."

"Sadgry," Dante repeated, letting his big-time confusion show.

"Yeah. Sad and angry. Sadgry. Nero doesn't do sad on its own."

Dante laughed. "Well, if that ain't the truth."

Then the floorboards above their head creaked and Dante instantly recognized Vergil's gait. Not that he would've needed to--a few seconds later, Kyrie's voice snapped through the house, her slicing "I trusted you" barely muffled by the floor. They might have lost most of the conversation with Nero, but Kyrie wouldn't have that luck. Her every word reached them loud and clear, even though she'd barely raised her voice, and the more she talked on, the less Dante actually wanted to listen. He barely knew the girl, all in all, and this was a tad too much. He coughed awkwardly.

"Maybe we should be playing another of my messages," he suggested.

Nico hushed him, her entire body leaning forward as if to hear better… until Nero's voice from the archway between the living room and dining room startled her.

"Ya been eavesdropping how long, exactly?"

Dante burst out laughing. Poor dude had some blush to his cheeks, and he sure wasn't asking only for Kyrie's sake. "Windows were mysteriously open, what can we say?"

"You and th'old man really need to learn and talk louder," Nico added. "Real shame."

"It wasn't for you to hear," Nero snapped, but his shoulders relaxed. "None of this is."

His voice was loud enough to cover whatever Vergil and Kyrie were saying now, bless him. Dante pushed himself up and snagged a bunch of the one-bite desserts from the table, shoving them in his mouth, crunching down noisily to add to the ambiance.

"So. You good? With our favourite jackass, I mean." He gestured to the floorboards above

Nero rolled his eyes. "Sorta. Guess we are. Is it fucked up? Feels like I shouldn't forgive him shit so easily, but this fucker can make my anger burn like a thousand suns and deflate it just as fast."

"You and me both, kid." Dante shrugged, scanned the room for alcohol, and pouted when he found only a bottle of wine. If he was gonna think about all the shit he'd forgiven Vergil, he would need something stronger.

Nero huffed, but their conversation was cut short by Kyrie's voice as she held a single note, the sound pure and crystalline. It was quickly followed by the soft, plaintive sound of the violin--almost the same note. Vergil stopped, Kyrie sang it again, and then he tried once more, much more closer now. They went back and forth, changing the note when Vergil got it right, and Dante couldn't help tumble back into childhood memories. Their mom had used actual tools to tune in the instruments, and Dante had railed against how long it took every time. He'd had control of percussions back then--Eva said his sense of rhythm would keep them all in line--and he'd loved the way the bass drum would vibrate through his bones, or how Vergil sometimes jumped and scowled when he hit the cymbal hard (or used them to wake him up in the morning). Music had been a huge part of their lives back then, and even their dad had joined in every now and then, sitting at the old piano. Mostly, though, he wrote half the music they played, and they tested it out for him. Listening to the notes drifting from above, Dante couldn't help but wonder how much Vergil remembered of it all.

"She has a beautiful voice," he said.

"I keep tellin' ya, Nero, she's an angel."

Nero tsked. "Angels don't date demons, Nico. She doesn't need to be divine to be perfect."

Dante burst out laughing. Someone help this boy, he was just too sweet. Did people really get this smitten with others? Fuck, but he just couldn't relate to that.

The music above stopped, and soon footsteps creaked down the stairs. When Kyrie and Vergil finally stepped into the living room, they both did so hesitantly, sheepishly. Kyrie from embarrassment--her puffed up red eyes probably had something to do with it--and Vergil… shit, he actually looked shy. Dante whistled like they were greeting rockstars, and grinned at the red that put on his brother's cheeks.

"All right," he exclaimed. "It's time for my celebratory show!" 

Vergil rolled his eyes. "Please behave yourself, brother," he scolded, "and cede this seat to me."

The return to normal dispelled what awkwardness was left, and soon Nico, Dante, and Nero had squeezed in the two-seater, Nero claiming Vergil's spot from earlier in the evening. Kyrie remained standing, and Vergil sat at the edge of the couch's armrest. He closed his eyes, placed the dark blue violin against his neck, and set the bow on its strings, breathing in deeply. Dante found his lungs empty of air, waiting for the first notes to drift through the living room.

He hadn't expected to recognize them, and the striking familiarity of Vergil's opening left him stunned into his seat, mouth dry and heart clenching, his usual composure stolen away by the melody. This _was_ his childhood music, and while it made a certain sense for Vergil to remember it, what would Kyrie--

Her voice rose, carrying the first lyrics of this song, words about humanity's beauty he had heard their mother sang so very often--words Sparda had written, after he'd first discovered human music and art, at a time where his sense of rhythm had still been clumsy, almost childish. They weren't quite identical and Kyrie's version had this sheen of Order-ordained sanctity to it, but Dante could hardly _think_ through the sheer beauty of it all, and the collision of past and present in his poor, unprepared brain. He listened, entranced, as Vergil and Kyrie brought the song to a crescendo then slid into the ending.

Vergil lowered his violin and stared at him, piercing blue eyes nailing Dante to his couch. "I knew it," he said, and in his voice twined wonder and bitterness. "This is one of Father's songs, is it not?"

"Sure is," he replied with a casual pleasantness he was miles away from feeling. Didn't want to let everyone know Vergil outta remember it all himself. He turned to Kyrie. "Order changed it some, though."

She had grown absolutely beet red, her freckles almost shining. "Maybe time did? This is how I was taught them. Are they… are they really Sparda's words? It's one of our holy chants, but I always thought…"

"Yeah, pops used to write a lot," Dante confirmed. "He loved all sorts of art. Would've really dug Nero's paintings too, I bet. Creativity was one of the things he adored about humans."

"Demons sometimes create beautiful things, but it is not in their nature. They do not _waste time_ on art." Vergil stared at his violin with something akin to longing and added in a half-whisper. "There is no room for beauty in the pursuit of power."

There was a beat of silence, the weight of Vergil's unsaid thoughts stealing away the most obvious retorts. It was doubtful he had pursued anything creative since their mother had died. Dante snorted. "Well that explains Urizen's shit architectural design. That Qliphoth was a _mess_ , brother."

Vergil flicked a smile at him. "No more than the Temen-ni-gru, truly."

"Dad's tower didn't stink, at least. Though I guess the inside of his weirdo flying beast did."

"The _inside_?" Vergil repeated. "Did you get eaten by the Leviathan while I had my back turned?"

"For a while," Dante said with a casual shrug. "Fun ride down. Now quit stallin' and play us something else."

Vergil huffed, exasperated, but still prepared his violin. Kyrie gave him a slight nod, signalling that she was ready, and Vergil set off. For a time, Dante let the music wash over him, listening to the once-again familiar notes while he watched Vergil. His expression was one of intense focus, eyebrows pinched and lips turned into a slight frown not unlike those that preceded a battle, but there was something softer to it, wistful and maybe even a hint of fearful. Maybe that shouldn't surprise Dante; music had meant a lot to his bro as a kid, right along with poetry. He'd kept harassing their father to put notes and melodies on his latest poet obsession (must have been Blake, but Dante hadn't cared a drop back then). Playing now, half his memories of it forgotten… that couldn't be all fun. Didn't look like it hurt, though, and fuck did he draw some sorrowful notes out of that violin. By the time Kyrie and him finished the second song, Dante was craving something happier.

"This is beautiful, but do y'all know something more lively?” he asked. “It's our birthday, not our funeral."

"Keep complaining and it could be both," Vergil retorted.

"He ain't wrong though," Nico said. "Keep it up and Nero will be bawlin'."

Nero snorted, but when he spoke, his voice was rough and raw. "No way in Hell." He jumped to his feet, glaring at Nico. "You're just projecting, numbskull. I'm gonna get my guitar, and you two can have the kiddos' percussions."

A bright smile lit Kyrie's face. "That's a wonderful idea, Nero. Maybe we should give Mr. Dante the triangle?"

"Woah hey! Can't _just_ give me the triangle. I'm gonna need a whole set of drums and cymbals to go with it!"

"Triangle it is," Nero declared playfully, before vanishing into the corridor.

He returned with a whole set of battered instruments of all types, half of which they'd obviously crafted themselves from trash--empty cans padded so they wouldn't cut, a piece of wood carved to create a fish-shaped guiro, maracas filled with peas, and a drum he was pretty sure had demon skin on top. Dante gleefully threw himself into the pile, testing them out one by one until he'd picked his favourites and set them around himself, on the ground. Nero settled back on the couch with an acoustic guitar, and he'd barely touched the cords that Vergil was offering him notes so he could tune it. Only Nico was left without an instrument.

"Ya ain't playin'?" Dante asked.

Kyrie chuckled, but it was Nero who answered. "She's forbidden. Gonna ruin our whole jam."

"I _make_ the instruments, but I ain't playing them."

There was a story there, but Dante was way too eager to get started to ask. Later, maybe. "I swear, next time I'm bringing Nevan over. She'd be delighted!" He twirled his makeshift drumstick with a grin, and hit the probably-once-a-trashcan-top cymbal with a grin. "For now, let's rock!"

It wasn't rock, but it was _awesome_. Dante started a basic rhythm and Nero jumped in right away. He was obviously even rustier than his dad and nowhere near as practiced, but he could hold his own and was experimenting along Dante's beats soon enough. Vergil slipped in with quick notes, weaving in and out of their patterns, a thin smile breaking his focused frown. Kyrie was the last to join them, hesitant at first, then more strongly when it earned her a whooping cheer from Nico. Dante closed his eyes and just focused on the rhythm for a while, letting the rest of the world drop to a background. It had been ages since he hadn't felt this entranced without fighting--he really ought to pick up music again back home, too. Music and fighting. He was definitely bringing Nevan out on the next outing, yeah. 

When he opened his eyes again, he had an open beer at his feet, and Nico winked at him with a grin. They'd all been served like that--Kyrie with water--but while most of them needed to let go to drink, Nero just materialized his demon arms and kept playing. Dante snorted and sped up his beat, forcing the kid to up his game… and then Vergil pushed the violin, too, matching the new speed and slipping in challenging patterns of notes. Nero set the beer down and brought all four arms to bear on his guitar's cords. They stared at each other; the music lulled… then they were off again, pushing speed and complexity in their melody, dragging all other players to do the same. Dante's grin widened, Vergil recovered his frown of intense focus, and Nero pressed his lips into a thin line. Somehow, they managed not to turn the competition into an awful cacophony, and Kyrie kept up with them despite the demands on her voice, her singing tying the music together.

Then she decided she had enough.

Kyrie had kept her volume down, weaving notes throughout the other instruments, but she brutally took the rhythm they'd been building and belted out a cleaner, more powerful version of it, rising her crystalline voice far above their giddy playing, her notes sharp and beautiful. Nero was the first to stop, four arms dropping as he stared, open mouthed, stars in his eyes. Dante followed him quickly--as fun as this was, he'd rather not miss a single instant of this because he'd been trying to keep up.

Vergil, of course, refused to concede defeat. 

Whether because they'd done this before or out of the usual stubbornness, he simply slid down the armrest and turned to Kyrie, his bow flying across the violin's strings. Kyrie turned to face him, and their eyes locked as they went on, taking turns at leading the other, pushing the song in new directions every time they could, low or high, fast or slow, almost like they were having an entire conversation on their own. Dante leaned back as he soaked in the music, beer in hand, until there was a second shift in it--they stopped playing against each other, dragging the other musician down new paths to try and trip them up, and started making music together, the violin sliding right under Kyrie's voice, supporting it as it rose into one last beautiful crescendo. Vergil stopped seconds before Kyrie, letting her note fly alone above their awed silence--and when it, too, vanished into the ether, he bowed to her.

Maybe he knew how to concede after all. Or maybe he didn't mind losing as much, when it wasn't to Dante.

"You have been holding back during practices," he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

Kyrie was flushed, her skin red and almost glowing, her eyes brighter than Dante had ever seen her. Easy to see what Nero loved about her when she was radiant like that.

"Even the Order's most challenging songs don't require this sort of skill. That was…"

"It was _glorious_!" Nico provided. "I got y'all recorded, too, that was just too cool. You're almost a fucking band all on your own!"

That was all it took for Nero and her to start throwing around fake band names. Dante contributed his own occasional ideas, sometimes adding a little rift to them--so they'd punch more, y'know? Vergil had sat back down, fingers running along his violin, silent except for the occasional criticism. Boy did he look tapped out now, but there was just the hint of a smile floating on his lips. Dante hopped across the room and crashed into the very couch his brother had elected. Just to be closer, and maybe to throw a leg over Vergil’s. His twin cast him a disapproving look from his armrest seat at that.

"How long are you staying in Fortuna?"

"A big whooping five days." Dante kicked his legs up, settling them on Vergil's laps and causing him to withdraw the violin with a hiss. "Can't really afford to be gone longer just yet, I don't think. Wish I could, though."

"You say that now, but while we were tuning, Kyrie insisted you were not allowed to sleep on the couch. We'll be sharing."

Dante's eyes flew open and he flung a grin at Vergil. Okay, so maybe by the end they would be back at each other's throat, but until they reached that point, it was going to be _awesome_. "Shit, she must really hate your guts, then!"

Amusement shone in Vergil's eyes even as he scowled at Dante. "Steal the blankets and I will cut you down."

"Wake me up before noon, and _I_ will."

Before either of them could go on, Kyrie positioned herself before them, hands on her hips. "One more threat--one drop of blood spilled in my house--and you're both sleeping in the streets. Is that clear?"

Dante grinned at her, all domestic power and inner strength--he had to say, Kyrie was unlike any of the girls in his life, but he really loved the little lady. He gave her a frank salute. 

"Super duper clear," he said, knowing he had a thousand other different ways he could annoy Vergil, whose main mode of retaliation had just been cut off. Truly, his stay in Fortuna promised to be stellar.

 

###

 

They talked late into the night; Dante with his legs thrown over Vergil, Kyrie sitting against Nero, and Nico sprawled on the floor amidst the instruments. They talked about Dante's cool message box, talked about the future kid and if they'd thought about names (they hadn't), talked about making more music or even writing something more challenging for Kyrie (that had been Vergil's suggestion, and Dante would bet he was thinking of their dad, of maybe pursuing that part of the Sparda legacy). It was calm and pleasant in a very different way from his boisterous evenings with Trish and Lady, yet by the end of it Dante still felt exhausted. The happier he got, the more he could tell all the times he hadn't been, all the days he'd mistaken faking it for the real deal. Which tired him, which pushed him to fake some more, which kinda drained some of the happiness, and wasn't that cycle a doozy? He was glad when Kyrie started nodding off and they all collectively agreed to get their asses to bed, even if it meant being alone with Vergil again--or maybe because it did.

Boy, he was really growing into a sentimental goof, wasn't he?

Dante dropped onto the bed still fully dressed, a chuckle escaping him at the thought, his grin unbearably wide. Vergil closed the door and glared at him.

"Is something funny, brother?" 

Tension in his voice; he must be preparing for Dante to annoy him again. Great time to catch him off guard. Dante let the words roll off his tongue. 

"Was just thinkin' about how much I love bein' 'round you, is all."

A sharp intake of breath. A slow, indecisive "Ah". Dante pushed himself up on his elbow to watch his brother's face, and even in the pale moonlight filtering through the window, he could tell how red Vergil had become. His brother quickly turned his back to Dante and busied himself removing his vest and shirt. He was halfway done when he set both hands on the dresser, next to his violin's case and the Yamato, and leaned forward. Dante could feel him gather his courage.

"About the music…"

"Mom often sang while you played."

"I… Sometimes, when Kyrie sings, I think I can hear her, too. I keep hoping that maybe one day…"

Dante sat up, staring at Vergil's back and wishing he could see his expression now. "No way to tell but to keep trying."

Vergil sighed. "I don't know that I can bear the hope." He fell quiet for a time, perhaps just as stunned by his admission as Dante was. "I think I remember Father and you, too."

"We joined in from time to time, mostly for fun," Dante confirmed, before snorting and adding, "but you were _serious_ about this stuff. Some days I could barely get you to come and play between that and the damn books!"

"Ah, yes, I do remember that. You could get incredibly annoying." He reached for the amulet at his neck then half-turned towards Dante. "Some things never change, do they?"

"Don't tell me you plan to do nothing but violin and no sparring while I'm around!" Dante spread his arms out. "I've been roping Lady and Trish into it because of how dull it feels to train alone."

"No worries there. I… do have exams, but I'm certain I can clear my schedule and negotiate some free time for myself."

Dante grimaced. The very thought of studying just irked him to no end. He'd _tried_ , back when he was a teen, but it was so boring! Besides, no one cared if he couldn't spell much besides his name--he got the job done anyway. Slowly, half convinced he'd break Vergil's precious fancy clothes, Dante started unbuttoning them. 

"Good. 'Cause I can't wait to ground Nero and you into dust."

"Kyrie said no threats," Vergil replied pleasantly. "Not that you're much of one…"

Dante burst out laughing, and a second later he was jumping on Vergil's back, the folds of his vest hanging as he landed. Vergil caught his legs by reflex, and Dante had time to ruffle his hair before his brother rumbled his name and threw him back on the bed. He spun around, then, running a hand through his hair to slick it back before shedding off the last of his shirt. Dante got the message and had his own off and thrown at Vergil's face almost immediately. His brother set it down on the dresser with an annoyed huff, then they were brawling like kids, the bed creaking under them, Dante desperately trying to hold back his laughs--as if Kyrie and Nero couldn't hear them perfectly well through the paper thin walls. And indeed, Nero opened the doors a handful of minutes later, bare-chested and in pyjama pants, only to cross his arms, lean against the doorway, and glower at them.

"Okay, who started it?"

Vergil disentangled himself from Dante, jumping to his feet, and pointed at him. "He did."

"As if! You said I wasn't much of a threat!"

Vergil made a 'you see?' gesture in his brother's direction and lifted his chin. "Perhaps you ought to define 'started it' more precisely, Nero."

"Like, physically. One of you babies must have jumped the other first." For all his scolding tone, he was smiling.

"That was definitely Dante, then." One could drown in the thickness of Vergil's smugness.

" _I told you!_ " Kyrie called from their room, giggling. "Next morning's chores are all yours, Nero!"

Nero groaned, wiped his nose, and glared at Dante. "I'm _very_ disappointed in you, Uncle," he said, turning tail and closing the door before Dante could edge a single word in.

Dante pouted at the door. "That's not fair," he mumbled. "I had no idea there was a wager."

Vergil was still radiating smugness, which just made it even more humiliating. His brother's eyebrows shot up and he leaned down, to whisper. "I think _I'm_ up one, now."

Dante flung his pillow right at him, laughing. "Shut up, Mister Accountant. That just makes us even."

Vergil joined in the laughter, and the soft and honest sound of his twin's chuckles soothed away his irritation, a ball of warmth filling his chest until he was grinning again, unable to stop himself. Nothing quite beat the way Vergil laughed. There would be plenty of other opportunities to argue about points, anyway, and they both finished preparing for bed in silence. Dante promptly sprawled into it, occupying as much space as he could.

"Hey, Vergil," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "Happy birthday."

Vergil climbed into the double bed, batting away legs and arms to make room for himself. "You too, Dante. Happy birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we end the birthday party day. <3 Nero having to play the responsible one around the twin will always give me life haha.
> 
> Also if Dante being all "wow how do people get this smitten can't relate" smells like "Squid and her dozen aromantic headcanons" it's cause that's 100% what it is. 
> 
> (Not to stress you out, but Part 2 has only two chapters left now O.o)


	31. In Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Yamato training begins at last.

Dante was startled awake by a splash of icy cold water dumped unceremoniously on his head. He jerked up with a cry of protest to find Vergil holding a now empty glass of water, looking down smugly upon him. Bastard was already dressed, his hair all carefully slicked back, awake and energetic. Worse: he had Nico with him, filming from the doorway. 

"Sun's up, Dante. Time to get out of bed."

"What the hell." Dante immediately flung himself back down, even though the bed was wet now, and grabbed Vergil's pillow to stuff it over his head. "Go away Vergil. I don't get up at the ass crack of dawn."

"It's almost 9."

"I'm jetlagged." There. The perfect excuse. Vergil didn't need to know he'd rerouted his sleep schedule to match Fortuna hours over the last week because he hadn't wanted to be drowsy all the time he was here like he had on his previous visit. 

"Suit yourself. Nero has completed the morning chores he inherited due to your poor impulse control. We are leaving for our usual sparring grounds and I intend to train Nero in the proper use of the Yamato. He seemed excited by the prospect of practicing _on you_ , but I suppose I will let him know you preferred sleep over sparring with your nephew."

"You're the worst." 

He couldn't believe Vergil was actually guilting him into getting up so early! And it was working, too, because the moment he'd said anything about teaching Nero how to use the Yamato, Dante's poor little heart had flipped. Vergil was so goddamn protective of his katana, had made it such a huge part of who he was… It might not quite be a Devil Arm the way his Devil Sword Dante was now, but Dante was pretty sure his twin had piled some of his own power into it, too, in addition to what Sparda had initially created. Training Nero with the blade was just such a _fatherly_ thing to do. Dante rolled out of bed, grinning like a fool. 

"So whatcha gonna teach him? When to whisper _scum_ as you strike down demons? Why it matters to sheathe the Yamato after every sequence and look cool doing so?" 

Vergil glared at him, but he got himself a full laughter from Nico, so he figured that was a win. Dante stretched out lazily, then grabbed the expedition backpack he used as luggage, digging in for a shirt. It probably wouldn't stay on long, but he didn't want to have Vergil scolding him on pointless shit like this so early. 

"This is why I would never teach _you_. You have no respect."

Dante burst out laughing. "I got plenty of respect for the Yamato."

He could tell the exact moment his implied 'just none for you' sank in by Vergil's startled scowl. He huffed and just stalked out of the room with a dismissive "We'll wait for you in the van. You have ten minutes, Dante. Hurry, so I can make you pay for that comment."

Wasn't much time, but Dante had done faster before. He stared at his brother's billowing coat as Vergil left, grinning still, then quickly found his discarded pants and ran a quick hand through his wet hair. Nico had stayed hovering by the doorway.

"I can look at your two ladies while y'all duke it out. Make 'em good as new for ya."

"Awesome." He pulled his pants up, then stretched to grab the Ebony and Ivory's leather holster, throwing it Nico's way. "They've been seein' a lot of use recently, and I got a feeling it'll get worse before it gets better. Always does."

Nico ran reverent fingers over their barrel. "I got ya covered."

Dante started looking for socks--the damn things always seemed to disappear on him--while Nico went on.

"Ya know V-man's draggin' his computer in case he gets some study time, right?"

Dante snorted. He’d just about died of laughter when Vergil had told him of his plans to become an accountant, but if he wanted to sort through the mess of paperwork Dante always left aside, all the glory to him. Besides, it had meant Vergil would _stay_ , that he was conceiving long-term plans around and about the _Devil May Cry_ , and that, more than anything, helped Dante believe his twin was there for good. At last. 

“Next thing he’ll start wearin’ cravats again.”

Nico sputtered. “ _Cravats_? He used to wear--oh man that’s just too funny. Ya can’t drop this shit on me without warning!”

Dante snagged his socks at last and shoved them on. “Wish I had pictures for ya.”

“Stories are good! Oh hey, let’s strike a deal. Our little secret.” She crossed her arms, and Dante loved the mischief shining in her eyes. This was gonna be good, he could feel it. “That laptop he’s bringing? It’s gonna be unattended for the whole mornin’, and I know the password. You tell me some juicy stories, and I fuck around with his things. Harmless little pranks, ya know? S’long as I know I got a prince charmin’ to back me up, I can be your agent of chaos.”

“Boy do I _love_ the sound of that!” Dante snatched his coat up, grinning at Nico, and headed out. “Ya know he got olives delivered to my shop the other day? Crates upon crates of the damn things!” She snickered, and he rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. That’s probably half your idea.”

Nico followed him, hands raised in faked innocence. “I’m just teachin’ him new tools. What he does with it is entirely up to him.”

“He’s always been a petty bastard.” Dante couldn’t help the fondness in his voice. He had his own plan going, covering Vergil’s room in compromising pictures, but he ought to get back at him now, too. No telling when (if) Vergil meant to sleep at the _Devil May Cry_ again. “Ya got yourself a deal, Nico!”

She cackled as they went down the stairs, an evil sound if he’d ever heard one--and Dante had fought enough world-conquest-obsessed demons to have a whole range of experience in the matter. Whatever she had in mind was gonna be priceless. This, he decided, was a good reminder that he was only around for five days, and he needed to make the most of them to remind Vergil what it meant, exactly, to have a foolish little brother.  

****

###

****

Nero was an impatient youth. He refused to listen to Vergil's advice, arguing against every exercise, pretending they were all futile and boring, and even going so far as asking if Vergil was fucking with him when he insisted this was how he'd learned. What balance they had found in their relationship seemed to have vanished the moment Vergil had extended the Yamato to him, and it felt like they'd returned to their first jagged conversations--except that now, Nero _should_ have been obeying him. "If you didn't want to endure these exercises you shouldn't have let me win" became Vergil’s trump card, and although it visibly enraged Nero, he used it as often as required. This would have been a frustrating morning under any circumstances, but having Dante watch it all only made things worse. They should have let him sleep.

And of course, Dante being Dante, he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"C'mon, Vergil, let us fight! Didn't y'all drag me out of bed for this?" He conjured the Devil Sword and gave it a quick spin. "I'm craving the exercise."

"He's not ready."

“Ya kidding me? He’s so ready he’s just about to burst from it!” Dante grinned at Nero and poked at his chest, earning himself a firm ribbing. “Look, readiness spilling through the seams.”

“Just because he wants to fight--”

“C’mon, old man!” Nero interrupted, crossing his arms. “Ya can’t expect me to waste time holding your fancy stance schtick when _Dante is right there_.”

Vergil bristled, chin rising in defiance. “It’s not a waste--”

“Would be on me,” Dante pointed out, and Vergil glared at him. Would these two ever let him finish a sentence? “Maybe Nero needs to get his ass kicked before he understands your point. Luckily for you, I’m a great teacher in that department.”

“As if!” Nero hopped back, a hungry grin spreading across his face as he lifted the Yamato. “I rammed you with your own sword the first time we fought.”

Dante snorted and ran the tip of the Devil Sword along the Yamato. “Can’t say I was paying that much attention to you yet. This will be different.”

Demonic energy was already crackling the air, drawing invisible sparks between the two of them. Vergil’s blood pumped at it, his own hands twitching with the urge to join the battle. He sighed. “Very well. I will allow a sparring match--but no powers. Nero…” He frowned at his son’s posture again, moved in and quickly rearranged him so he’d be in a proper position at the start, then offered the scabbard back to him. “Try, at least. And remember, the Yamato is not a tool, it is an ally. Listen to it as you fight.”

This earned him a confused look from Nero, but Vergil hoped that as he used the katana more and more, his son would come to understand. When he fought with the Yamato, the sword sang in his grip, its power flowing within his own, directing him if he let it. They made split-second decisions together, discipline and demonic force combining as they moved through quick sequences of slash-dodge-parry. Was it any wonder, truly, that their fates had woven into one another before the end? 

Vergil closed his eyes as he stepped back, and his fingers, deprived of the Yamato’s grip to find comfort in, instead ran along the light texture of his pants. It wasn’t remotely the same, only made its absence heavier by his side. He’d thought he had gotten used to it through his time in Fortuna, yet every time he picked the katana back up, he found himself longing to never put it down again. It was easy to see why devil hunting appealed to Dante so much; even as a child, he’d always had a sword in hand.

When he looked upon Dante and Nero again, he discovered Nero had already moved out of the demanded fighting stance. An irritated sigh rumbled out of his throat, but he forced himself not to stride right back in and correct the position once more. Perhaps Dante was right, and he needed to learn the hard way. Vergil crossed his arms, and casually gave them the signal. 

“Fight.”

They hurled themselves at each other and the clang of their swords rippled like a shockwave through the clearing, tension and power unleashed at last. Dante grinned as he followed up the first attack, the combo of feint and strikes all-too familiar. It was eerie to be an observer in this dance, to watch the Yamato spark against Dante’s Devil Sword without feeling the strength of the impact coursing through _his_ forearms. Nero absorbed it well enough, meeting Dante head on, but with every new strike, he was reverting to his old habits--grip slipping to the side, posture overly aggressive, and--now that he saw him attempt to strike, it was becoming more obvious Nero did not understand basic cuts with a katana. He fought well, relying on years of training with other blades, but Vergil’s frustration rose with every misplaced foot, every impulsive strike at Dante, every proof that despite years with the Yamato, Nero had never bothered to look into the proper fighting techniques associated with it. 

It was costing him the fight, too. Dante was playing with him, hammering at the Yamato, forcing Nero to parry in increasingly awkward positions. Vergil crossed his arms and waited for the fatal blow--and indeed, soon the Devil Sword hit the Yamato hard enough to push it aside, and Dante stepped into the opening, slammed his elbow into Nero’s face, and sent him sprawling to the ground. Nero hit it with a grunt and a roll, and he would’ve jumped right back in if Vergil hadn’t interrupted.

“Enough.”

Dante heaved the sword on his shoulder and turned to him with a grin. “So soon?”

“I wasn’t done!” Nero protested, scrambling up, his grip loose on the Yamato. 

“It’s my turn.” He strode to them and extended a hand, gesturing for Nero to return the Yamato. “You watch and learn.”

“No way!” He sheathed it, glaring back at Vergil, as if daring him to reach for the katana.

“Nero--”

“I can do this, I swear!” 

“This isn’t--”

Nero’s left thumb pushed the Yamato out, and he drew with his right hand, the position on the grip perfect as he stepped forward and slashed in a horizontal arc. Blue flames engulfed the Yamato as its tip drew a thin line of red across Vergil’s chest, striking a quick flare of pain. Nero’s form hadn’t been perfect, but it was already miles ahead of what he’d executed earlier. Vergil glanced down as his flesh knitted back, still slower than it used to, then back to Nero.

“Much better.” He eyed the flames dancing around the Yamato. It only did this with Nero, never with him. “Did it… react? To you?”

“Y-yeah.”

Was that why his form was better, all of a sudden? “In this case, try again. Forget Dante; he’s inconsequential.” Dante immediately protested, but Vergil ignored him. He set his fingers along the Yamato’s curved edge and a smile tugged at his lips when the flame didn’t burn him. His gaze met Nero’s, so full of determination. “Focus on the Yamato, on your link to it. It… might be a better teacher than I am, and we’ll have ample opportunity to review the basics another day.”

It was a compromise and Nero must have known. He nodded. "I got this, old man." 

The Yamato flared brighter and he spun around, facing Dante with a smirk and falling into a fighting stance, his grip and position almost perfect, as if Vergil had just placed them. Dante grinned and rose the Devil Sword. 

“I’ll show your punk ass ‘inconsequential’, kid.”

Then they were off again, swords flashing through the morning light, blue flames trailing the Yamato and exploding with every strike. This time, Nero gave Dante no chance to play with him. He linked one attack after another, pressing the offensive in a fluid succession of cuts. He _still_ put too much strength behind each strikes, needlessly exhausting himself, but at least his form was something Vergil could work with this time around. Dante parried the attacks, keeping up with the rhythm, and the two of them danced around one another, their footwork quick and secure. It didn’t take long for the taunts to come.

“Is that all you can do?” Dante asked, a roundkick coming in hot after a feint the Devil Sword. 

Nero bent backward, twisting to the side to quickly come back up with a diagonal cut that found its match in the Devil Sword. “Sorry, asshole, couldn’t hear you over the sound of your bones creaking!”

Dante cackled as they fought on, and as Vergil watched the flow of battle, he started to feel something… different about it. He kept his eyes trained on the quick movements and pinpointed the change: Dante was edging his way ever closer to Nero, moving past the ideal cutting distance for the Yamato. It was subtle, but Nero didn’t step back to compensate, probably didn’t know his blade well enough to understand the issue, and soon enough Dante had stolen the offensive from him again. From the outside, it was obvious to Vergil who would win this time. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to yell at Nero to force Dante back so he could fix the distance before it was too late. Instead, he watched the fight play out, Nero’s taunts diminishing as his predicament must have become more obvious, the flames on the Yamato flickering weaker, his form slipping. Dante initiated a series of powerful strikes, and as the last cut started from overhead, it was obvious Nero--still half-stumbling from the shock of the previous attack--wouldn’t be able to parry it completely.

Vergil should have let it happened. Part of learning was failing, and if Nero had practiced his basic forms before demanding to fight his uncle, then he wouldn’t be a split second away from being thrown on his ass once again. But Dante’s smug victorious smile was all too familiar, sending waves of remembered frustration through him, and before he could quite consider his actions, Vergil had snapped time to a freeze and ran to his son.

He pushed Nero’s right feet slightly farther back, nudged his elbow so it’d better absorb the shock, and turned his grip on the Yamato, so his hands would be perfectly aligned above it. Power throbbed through him, the air shimmering as if under a blue haze as he hurried back to his previous position, crossed his arms, and released the flow. 

Surprised flashed through both Dante and Nero as the Yamato parried Dante’s strike with perfect timing and balance, and both of them jumped back then turned towards him in unison.

“You cheated!” Dante declared. “I totally had him.”

Vergil’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t see what you mean, brother.”

Nero huffed and let the Yamato’s tip touch the ground. The flames had vanished. “You do. I felt that time snap, and the Yamato’s singing like it found its long-lost lover or some shit.”

“It’s…” Vergil’s desire to play the game of innocence died instantly. His blade was yearning for him? Warmth spread through him, but he hadn’t missed the hint of bitterness in Nero’s voice. “Give it time, Nero, and the respect it deserves. It’ll grow fond of you, too.”

Nero gave it a quick twirl, then smirk. His posture shifted, the seriousness vanishing, replaced by a defiant playfulness that heralded a challenge. “Ya know, maybe the Yamato’s like you, and it wants your ass to be utterly, completely kicked before it starts singing for me, too.” He turned towards Dante. “Whatcha think, Dante? Time to teach my old man what happens when he interferes in our duels?”

Dante heaved the Devil Sword on his shoulder. He was beaming, and despite his apparent relaxed posture, tension and readiness rippled through his body. “First one to hit Vergil wins?”

Their gaze met, they exchanged brief nods, and then they launched forward, booted feet hitting the ground hard as they came sprinting at Vergil. He smirked, his heart thundering in sync with their feet, eager for the assault. After watching them spar for so long, he looked forward to joining the fray, even as the target.

“Hit me?” he asked, tilting his chin up. “How preposterous.”

He leapt up as they reached him, barely clearing the two cuts and landing lightly behind them. Nero was already turning around with a horizontal swipe, forcing him to tuck and roll farther away, and the moment he came up, he found Dante’s Devil Sword aiming to claim his head. Vergil twisted away, grinning as he felt the swoosh of air marking the passage of the blade less than an inch off his neck. 

Vergil let the flow of battle claim him, every sense on alert as Nero and Dante closed in on him, eager for victory. It was peculiar, to move without the Yamato in hand, dodging and leaping without balancing blade and scabbard. The rest of his body compensated, and soon he found himself fighting back with quick open-palm strikes and kicks at every available opening. Dante whooped the first time he did, striking Nero’s wrists after a downward cut had left him open, only to find his nephew laughing at him a few seconds later, when Vergil came down hard from a somersault with his boot, cracking Dante’s shoulder. By all means, one of them should have hit him now, but every time Vergil feared he wouldn’t dodge or interrupt in time, either Dante or Nero stopped the other man, pushing away the strike off just in time to deny their opponent the victory.

The world around vanished as they battled, the music of the swords, the dance of their feet, the lyrics of their taunts. Vergil’s mind had gone blank, harmonizing with the flow as he met the challenge head on, utterly and entirely peaceful. This could have lasted for hours, and he would have neither noticed nor minded. 

Instead, he committed a crucial mistake.

When Vergil danced past one of Dante’s strikes, he saw an opportunity he could not miss. He slipped directly inside his brother’s defense, hooking his arm around Dante’s before spinning on his heels, dragging his overextended target with him. As they spun together, Dante’s surprised exclamation ringing through the clearing, Vergil’s gaze met Nero’s--who was rushing them, the Yamato ready to strike. 

“Too slow,” Vergil taunted, flinging Dante directly into Nero and sending them both sprawling on top of one another at the other end of the clearing. They scrambled back up quickly, panting, and both of them gave a synchronous twirl of their swords before rushing back in.

This time, however, they were working together.

It took Vergil a few dodges to notice the change, how Dante’s quick sequences herded him towards Nero, forcing him to drop flat on the ground and roll away before the Yamato nicked him--how upon coming back up, they’d flanked him and swung in mirror strikes, attempts that Vergil only barely leapt over. He landed briefly on their blades and kicked himself off immediately, stepping on Dante’s shoulder for a split second to gain even more height. 

“Think you can escape us?” Dante asked, the smugness just enough for Vergil to twist around and look as he extended the Devil Sword. Nero jumped on it immediately, bending his knees as Dante swung his sword up, creating a perfect springboard for him. 

Nero came flying at him, but instead of swinging the Yamato--which would assuredly have scored--he sheathed it and pressed the scabbard across Vergil’s chest, bringing both of them down even as he wrapped his legs around Vergil’s waist, trapping him. They hit the ground, and through the ringing in his ears, Vergil heard Dante’s approaching bootsteps. He tried to push the Yamato off his chest, but at the height Nero had placed it, Vergil had no leverage to speak of and couldn’t match his son’s strength. The attempt took only a second, but it was sufficient for Dante to arrive and place the tip of the Devil Sword right at his forehead. Both of them looked down at him, grinning. 

“You’re one dodgy fucker, I’ll give you that,” Nero said, before looking up to his uncle. “C’mon, scratch him.”

“I dunno, I like seeing him squirm under you.” He bent forward. “You comfy right there, Vergil?”

Vergil stopped moving and mustered his best glare, calling upon decades of practice to stare at Dante when all he truly wanted was to let out the laugh in his chest. “I see no reason to answer that.”

“That a yes?” Nero shifted and sat on him, boots on the ground. “‘Cause I’m comfy. Could use a beer to celebrate.”

“And pizza,” Dante declared. He gave a quick flick on the Devil Sword, casually tracing a line over Vergil’s forehead. “Ya think Nico would--hey… why’s that healing so slow again?”

Vergil reached for the cut, already closing, blood pearled at its edges. Dante had the right of it; it should have been gone instantly. Neither Vergil nor Nero answered, and in the seconds that passed, the mood shifted, the weight of their secrets crushing the casual mirth they’d just had. Nero shifted away from Vergil’s chest, allowing him to sit up. Dante let the Devil Sword vanish and granted them both one of his easygoing smiles. 

“I missed some shit, huh? S’all right, just tell me it’s on the way to fixin’.”

“It is.” Vergil rubbed his now-healed forehead. “It gets faster every time. Do not let it trouble you, Dante.”

“Every time, huh?” Dante crossed his arms and leaned back, the very picture of casual smugness. “Guess we’ll just have to kick your ass over and over until it’s back up to speed!”

“You wish you could.”

They took a short break from fighting after that. Nico had brought drinks and a stack of pizza with her in the van, so they took everything out to eat in the sun. Vergil settled next to Nero, and while Dante continued eating more than his share of pizza, he placed the Yamato across his lap, the grip facing Nero. An awkward silence stretched between them, until Nero huffed. 

“C’mon, say whatever you’d come to say.”

“Ah.” Vergil had yet to habituate himself to Nero _wanting_ to hear what was on his mind, or to how he now seemed capable of detecting when Vergil’s courage had faltered halfway through an attempt, leaving them both stranded in silence. “I simply meant to… explain the Yamato to you. Physically, I mean. Your lack of knowledge would’ve cost you your second duel with Dante, had I not interfered.”

This earned him a scowl. “I’m gonna pretend ya didn’t phrase it like that, asshole” Nero said. “What’s there to know anyway?”

What was there to--Vergil bristled, inhaled deeply, and let the frustration slide off him. In time, Nero would come to understand the importance of understanding the Yamato in all its aspect--the physical blade, the martial art form that came with it, the demonic power imbued within, _and_ its place in Sparda’s legacy. Step by step. They had plenty of time, didn’t they? So instead of berating Nero for his disrespect, he focused on his point.

Vergil started with the grip and the mekugi, pointing out the bamboo pegs holding the katana together. In all his years using the Yamato, he’d never had to change these, and he suspected demonic power maintained them in perfect condition, but he’d also never thought the Yamato’s blade could break until Mundus had shattered it before him. Besides, he had always found it grounding to inspect the Yamato in this fashion, to show his only companion the care it deserved. His life had depended on their collaboration for too long to overlook basic maintenance under the assumption the katana’s inherent power would hold it together. 

To his surprise, Nero didn’t chafe or protest at the instruction, leaning closer to see properly. Their shoulders rubbed together, an unfamiliar sensation that almost distracted Vergil from his lesson. They never sat this close, Nero and him, and part of Vergil still tensed at the proximity, unease skittering across his skin. He pushed past it, to the warmth spreading inside, the wholeness of having his son by his side, listening intently as he explained every part of the katana and clacking his tongue in understanding once Vergil pointed out the nine inches past its point that were best used for cutting. Pride filled Vergil at the speed with which Nero had caught on to his own previous mistake. 

“Bastard probably knew what he was doing, too,” he said, glancing at Dante--who was shoving more pizza in his mouth while examining Ebony and Ivory, leaning against the van’s back tire with his legs crossed at the ankles.

Dante’s eyebrows shot up. “You two conspiring?”

“We ain’t tellin’ you shit, Dante,” Nero retorted with a smirk.

“You’ll have to find out this afternoon, before you once more find the Yamato through your chest,” Vergil added.

“Always the charmer, huh?” Dante licked his fingers; a pointless gesture, as he picked another slice right up. “Don’t think I’ll let you get a hit in that easy.”

Vergil smirked. He loved when Dante committed such wrong assumptions. “I’m afraid I have accountant test to study for, brother. I’ll leave this duty to Nero.” He slid the Yamato back in its scabbard, the familiar sound of its entrance buried under Dante’s laugh. Vergil extended the blade to Nero once more before pushing himself up on his feet. “I’m counting on you, son.”

“I--what?” Nero stuttered. 

“Stabbing Dante is a time-honoured tradition.” Vergil kept his tone calm and collected, as if he was talking of exchanging family recipe or any more inane traditions people entertained out there. “I understand you've already participated in it, but once is not sufficient. I trust you will do your utmost to uphold it.”

He climbed back into the van, giving neither of them a chance to reply. Dante’s half-stunned laughter was all the response he needed, either way, and once he was out of sight, he allowed himself a smile. Never would he have believed there would come a day where he could casually jest about their bloodied history without deepening the rift that had existed between him and Dante. Vergil sought his small pack, reaching first for the amulet safely stored in it, then for the old laptop Nico had salvaged for him months ago, upon his arrival in Fortuna. She had been a constant help mastering the terrible beast, and he no longer counted how many evenings he’d spent with it on the van’s small table, studying while she repaired breakers or experimented with new ideas. Most days they were in the garage, but on a few occasions Nico had taken him out of town, parking in recluse area where he could step outside and enjoy the scenery when work became too much.

This afternoon, he would be bringing his equipment outside, where he could keep an eye on Nero and Dante sparring, and note down what Nero most urgently needed training in where the Yamato was concerned.

****

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****

Nero's muscles burned from exertion as the afternoon drew to an end, a low throb as satisfying as kicking back in the grass with Dante promised to be. They'd fought each other for hours, eventually dropping the no powers rules and breaking out the full extent of their abilities. Fiery swords had met Nero's pale shurikens while they collided, Dante absorbing the full force of his demon arms only to shove it back into Nero's chest. On his next attempt, Nero had grabbed the whole of Dante's thick skull instead, slamming him into the ground and following up with the Yamato.

The katana's weight and balance were growing on him, and he could tell his movements were becoming more fluid and precise. Every time he turned towards Vergil, however, the man had a slight frown, disapproval written all over it. Or maybe that was just his face. Either way, Nero hated it. He kept telling himself to stop looking, but it wasn't until Dante taunted him about it that he got a hold of himself. 

Not that Dante himself wasn’t glancing at his twin all the goddamn time while Vergil got a blanket out and spread it on the ground near the van, setting up his massive accountant books and the laptop. The _why_ became obvious soon enough, when Vergil opened his laptop and wound up smashing at the keyboard within a few minutes, his angrily whispered “Why aren’t you working?!” echoing above the din of their sparring. Dante’s whole ass face cracked into a grin; Vergil’s head whipped up to glare at him.

“ _Dante_!” he snapped, and Dante couldn’t help laugh, his guard coming ever-so-slightly down. 

Nero rushed into the opening, scoring a quick hit, and his uncle’s attention returned to him even as he replied to Vergil. “What’s wrong, big bro? Problems with the machine?”

"You did this--this…" He gestured angrily at his computer. "... trickery!"

Dante knocked Nero's strike to the side, then quickly set a hand over his heart. "Me? I couldn't tell the power button from my ass if I tried!"

"I _know_ it's you. You… you must have had help." And as he finished the sentence, he turned towards the van. Nico stood in the doorway, cellphone in hand, grinning so wide Nero thought her face might break from it. Vergil scowled, and betrayal seeped into his tone when he spoke again. " _Nicoletta._ What did you do to my screen?"

He stalked towards her, laptop in hand, and she began protesting and pretending she would _never_ do that to them, but even Ticho would have seen through her lies. Nero’s gaze followed Vergil a moment too long, however, earning himself a smack from the Devil Sword.

"Lost your focus, kid?"

This asshole had totally known about the laptop. His face said it all. "Not for long, gramps," Nero promised. "Ya know he'll get back to ya for this."

Dante burst out laughing. "It's half the point of it, yeah! Last time he got in his head to prank me I got a gorgeous double in the deal!" He bent his knees, getting the Devil Sword in a ready position once more. "Now come on! Show me what you got!"

They fought uninterrupted after that, and while Vergil did regain his place on the blanket, laptop visibly fixed from what Nico had done from the screen, he was forced back inside after a few hours, no doubt from his dying battery.

By the time Nero and Dante let themselves crash on the ground, well and truly done for the day, they'd been alone for a while. It was, Nero decided, the perfect opportunity to get some answers out of Dante. Every time Vergil opened up about something, it felt like his twin was involved in one way or another, too, and Nero had glimpsed enough of the scars left on his father to wonder at what Dante’s big smiles and easy jests hid. Problem was, he had no idea how to breach that sorta stuff with him. Dante had just never opened up, despite plenty of nights drinking together. He always rambled about something else than himself then. Best not overthink it, probably.

“Hey, Dante…” All right. That was a beginning. Now he just needed to find the rest. “Ya good, right?”

“Stellar.” Dante stretched out, his smile relaxed and content. “Can’t remember the last time I had this much fun sparring.”

“No, I meant… in general.” Nero gestured vaguely. “With life and shit.”

That gave Dante pause. He turned to Nero with a frown and ran a casual hand through his hair. "Are ya tryin' to have a heart to heart, kid?"

"I-huh…" A nervous chuckle escaped Nero. It sounded dumb now that Dante stated it flatly like that, and sounding dumb made him angry. He scowled at his uncle. "Shit, Dante, I just wanna know you're all right. Should've gotten you drunk first, 'cause you never stop talking once that's done."

"Too late!" Dante declared in a singsong voice, 

"C'mon, don't be an ass. Vergil's told me enough of the shit you went through. I just wanna be sure you're holding up under all those smiles. You wanna be _Uncle_ Dante, then you gotta put up with me bullyin' ya until you talk."

Dante's eyebrows shot up, and Nero couldn't tell if he was vaguely insulted, amused, or touched. Maybe all three. Then the man threw an arm around Nero's shoulder and pulled him close, half-dragging him across the ground. "Aah, can you believe _Vergil_ had a kid like you?"

It didn't sound like Dante expected an answer. In fact, it sounded like he was avoiding the topic. Nero ribbed him hard. "He's easier to crack than you are. Don't change the topic."

"I ain't." 

This would have been the time to actually answer the question, but Dante instead fell into a long silence, staring somewhere ahead with a vague smile. Nero stared at him, minutes drifting by, until he got impatient and huffed loudly. Dante got the cue, judging by his lilting "hm-hmm", but it still took him several minutes more before he opened his goddamn mouth. 

"Look, kid, I dunno what to tell ya. Some days are worse than others, but most of the time I'm doing fucking great. Having Vergil around like this… that's the kinda shit I'd stopped dreaming about years ago." His smile widened, growing softer and more sincere, and the hand on Nero's shoulder moved to his hair, ruffling them. "So dontcha worry about your uncle. Fake it 'till you make it has finally reached the make it part."

If Nero ever needed a confirmation Dante had gone through some rough times, that was it. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it in any details, though, and that was fine. He sounded honest enough, and when had any of them been good with words anyway? “Right. Just remember I got your back, and I’ll punch your face in if ya don’t let me help somehow when ya need it.”

Dante snorted and didn’t reply. Nero let it go at that, leaning against his shoulder, spreading his own large blue wing around his uncle’s shoulders. That was enough, really. The ensuing silence wasn’t awkward or annoying anymore--which didn’t stop Dante from getting bored of it within minutes. 

“All right, let’s go check on your old man, make sure he hasn’t murdered Nico or anything.”

Fat chance of that. Who else would have the patience to catch him up to modern times? But Nico was a demon in her own right, and she enjoyed watching Vergil fumble and reporting in on the latest basic mistake that’d sent her rolling on the floor. “Couldn’t blame him. She’s annoying as hell.”

He picked up the Yamato and straightened up, his fingers running alongside the blade's sheathe. When the day had started, it’d felt like Vergil thought he was the poorest trainee in existence. Everything out of his mouth was criticism, and Nero had been just about to tell him to shove his teachings up his ass, inheritance be damned. He was starting to see _why_ the boring basic training mattered, though, and he just hoped Vergil would wait for his twin to be gone before he got on his back about those again. Maybe Nero would listen to him then. The Yamato was a beautiful blade, after all, one to which he owed his life. Nero might never wield it like Vergil did, but he’d be damned if he didn’t find a way to reconnect with the sword anyway, and feel its power flow through him, in harmony with his own. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all remember when Vergil and Nero had a burger lunch and Nero joked that there should be a sparring session where Dante and him do their best to hit Vergil? *scratches that off the checklist* :)


	32. Waiting for the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante's trip to Fortuna comes to an end, and plans for the future are discussed.

In the end, five days was too short a time for Dante's stay in Fortuna. They flew by Vergil, half lost to the necessary studying, the rest a blissful review of all the ways Dante managed to annoy him by existing in his vicinity, and all the ways Vergil could reply in kind. Dante inserted himself into his routine seamlessly, as if he was always meant to be a part of it, and his presence seared into Vergil’s mind all the little things he'd missed since splitting from him--the constant fidgeting at the edge of his vision, Dante's way of saying his name as if "Vergil" was inherently funny, the bright smile he was rewarded with if Vergil had food ready for Dante when his twin woke up, the limbs insistently lying on his lap or around his shoulders if they sat nearby, a physical reminder that they were both alive and together.

The weather stayed nice over his stay, so Vergil delimited a section of the courtyard for his use, bringing out most of his study material to work while Dante played with the children, teaching Amelia pointlessly fancy tricks with her ball or brawling with Julio. By the end of the first afternoon, it had been decided they all deserved a house up in their tree, and Dante and enrolled Nero and Nico to help him build it. Despite his best determination to stay focused on proper test selection methods, Vergil eventually gave in to the collective enthusiasm (and the obvious lack of time to complete such a project) and joined the efforts. Between Nero’s double set of arms and their collective abilities, they made an efficient team, but it quickly became apparent that without Nico’s guidance, none of them could build anything remotely stable. 

In the end, they started over often enough that the enterprise took them two full days. They celebrated with another musical night, and this time Dante shared his percussions with the kids, sitting all three of them around him. Ticho kept abandoning his triangle, walking up to Vergil and pulling on his pants, demanding to touch the violin. When he finally abdicated to the wish, Vergil watched him like a hawk, nervous the toddler would accidentally break something. He made a mental note to ask Kyrie when the child’s birthday was, and to perhaps search for a child-sized version of the instrument.

Dinners were much more casual, and by some miracle Dante ate something else than pizza for the remainder of the trip without ever uttering a complaint--even he must have known better than to risk insulting Kyrie’s unyielding hospitality.

But the best part of Dante’s visit, in Vergil's opinion, was crashing into bed. During the day, they teased and fought and rolled their eyes at each other; at night, quiet conversations bloomed between them. They talked of Nero and Kyrie and the coming baby, of how music was worming its way into their family again, of Lady’s invoices and Vergil’s long chats of demonic theory with Trish, of books and games of pool and whatever had caught their interest while they’d been separated. They did not talk about demons, but Vergil sensed Dante’s hunts and encounters with the black sludge in the blanks left in his stories and the occasional change of topic. It irked him, yet Vergil never brought it up himself, unwilling to break the mostly domestic nature of their topics. They had never had that, Dante and him, and it made Vergil realize how little they truly knew of each other, how unused to simply _be_ around one another they still were.

On his last night in Fortuna, however, Dante eschewed casual conversation altogether, unleashing thoughts he must have set to boil through the entire stay. 

****

###

****

Dante stared at the ceiling, limbs stretched out to occupy as much bed space as possible--he loved forcing Vergil to fight for his half--while Vergil changed out of his day’s clothes, folding each of them neatly on the dresser, as if that could compensate for the piles Dante had left on the floor by his side. It had been five glorious days in Fortuna, each more peaceful than the last, each injecting into him a quiet nostalgia he didn’t know how to deal with. Dante loved this house, the family inside, how Vergil fit into it… and a selfish part hated it, too, how perfect it all was, how ideal for his twin. It had been too pleasant, seeing Vergil again, and Dante dreaded returning home alone.

“Something on your mind?” Vergil asked, one hand on his folded shirt, his back still to Dante. Damn, but he’d grown some people skills too, if he could tell Dante hadn’t just been relaxing. This wasn’t something he ought to burden Vergil with, and yet… 

“You know you’ll always have your room in the _Devil May Cry_ , right?” He kept his tone casual, hoping Vergil would miss the wider implication of the question.

His twin turned around, shoulders tense, blue eyes searching Dante for a clue of what had gone unsaid. He found none, and lost his patience with it. “My room? What do you mean, Dante?”

“Ya really gonna make me say it, huh?” Dante propped himself on an elbow and scoffed. Why not? They’d talked about so many things recently, maybe this could be one more. “I’ve seen how you are here. Fortuna did you some good, and in a few months time there’ll be a baby to dote over, and you got all this Yamato training to do with Nero…” He let himself flop down, raising an arm and gesturing vaguely above himself. Dante didn’t have the heart to finish the thought, but Vergil didn’t need him to.

“You think I’ll stay here,” he stated, his voice steady but tight.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Hells, he should just shut up. Imminent departure was making him emotional, but he should know better than to spill it all like this. Vergil didn’t need this shit. He needed the happy-go-lucky Dante, the one he maintained as often as possible, carefully crafted from shining moments of happiness to get him through the bad ones. He closed his eyes, frustrated with himself. It didn’t matter how much he wished his brother would return with him; what mattered is that he stayed with them in general, wherever he’d be happy.

“Not to me,” Vergil answered.

Dante’s eyes flew right back open, his heart hammering. “You gonna ditch your beautiful little family for the crass uncle who eats pizza all day and can’t keep his mouth shut? Don’t fuck with me, Vergil.”

“Dante.” Vergil used his scolding tone, like he couldn’t abide the way he’d phrased that. Two long strides carried him to the bed, and the mattress shifted under his weight as he sat. Vergil reached for the amulet at his neck and sighed. “It is not so simple. You _are_ my family, too. And I… I cannot bring myself to make such a decision. It feels… pointless.”

Pointless? Now that was a strange way to put it. Dante stared at his brother’s back, piecing together what could’ve brought him to say that. The only reason he could think of choosing a home as a pointless decision was if he was convinced he’d never get to keep it.

“You’re waiting for the world to break on you again, aren’t you?”

He had phrased it as a question, but Dante _knew_. Despite decades apart and all the bullshit they’d both endured and kept mostly secret from each other, some things didn’t need explanation between them. They were a continuation of who they’d always been, and Vergil had never been optimistic about things he couldn’t control. Vergil didn’t answer beyond a stiff grunt, so Dante sat up and moved to his side.

“See, I can’t live that way, and you shouldn’t. World broke on us when we were eight, didn’t it, but spending all my time thinking about all the ways it could happen again just feels like letting it win. Guess I just run on spite and thrill." Dante ran a hand through his hair. This was what he’d tell anyone--just live fully in the now while you can, crackin’ jokes and spinnin’ Devil Arms into flashy combos. But while all that was true, it wasn’t the whole story, and it didn’t feel fair to feed Vergil only the shiny cover when Dante himself had seen so much of his brother’s cracks--in the clearing when he'd cried, and even more recently, when he had admitted in hushed whispers that so much of his memories of their mother was gone. Dante was shit at opening up too much, but maybe he could dip a toe, just this once. "All that and apathy. Some days… some of those days after you fell in Hell, or after Mallet Island… it didn’t seem worth it to _feel_ anything at all anymore. Nothingness was better than that pain.”

Vergil stiffened, and his sharp breath intake sent a spike through Dante’s heart. He shouldn’t have said that. He could almost feel the guilt pouring out of his brother now. “Dante, I--”

The rest never made it past Vergil’s throat, and Dante hurried along, sparing them both that particular conversation. “Those days, it was all just showmanship. Impress the gallery and wait for the actual fun to return, y'know?"

"I don't,” Vergil whispered.

Dante snorted. That had been rhetorical, but it was just like Vergil to answer anyway. "Obviously. You'd have to know what fun even means."

"Dante." The scolding in his voice was soft, born of habit more than any real irritation. 

They remained silent for a time, and Dante leaned gently into Vergil. Vergil leaned back, settling his weight wordlessly against Dante's. It was a small acknowledgement, but to Dante it meant the world, that they could just be there for one another like this. Minutes trickled by, almost peaceful, before Vergil broke the silence.

"I'm afraid apathy has never been an option for me," he said.

"Yeah. You always felt too much."

Vergil startled away, as if Dante had burned him, but it was true. He might be better at masking it, but that didn't mean all that shit wasn’t roiling inside. Vergil's problem was, he let the worst ones consume him--grief and bitterness and self-importance had eaten him until he was summoning bridges into the underworld, hadn't it?

"I do not," Vergil said, his voice tight.

"Deny all you want, brother, but you fled the living room after being told you were gonna be a granddaddy because it was too much." Dante chuckled but set a hand on his brother's arm, turning with a smile. "It's fine, ya know. Ya get to be overwhelmed."

"It's--" Vergil cut himself off sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. "I despise it, Dante. I have no desire to let emotions rule me, and I _will_ find a way to regain my balance. But--" He paused again, and it took Dante all the flimsy maturity he had not to snort. Maybe Vergil hadn't changed that much. He sure still talked about those pesky feelings like they were a separate part of him.

"But?"

“But it has been… enlightening, to allow this weakness to exist--to stop carving out parts of me and instead try to find how they fit, and how I could come to like them.” Vergil splayed his fingers on his legs, and Dante suspected it was to keep them from shaking. After a brief silence, he turned towards Dante, his brow furrowed into a slight frown. His eyes seemed to catch the moon's pale light, even paler and more piercing than usual. "Apathy doesn't suit you either, little brother."

Under the cold, almost judgemental tone, Dante caught a hint of worry. Might've been wishful thinking, but he'd done a lot of that in the past years, and it'd never warmed his chest like this. "It picked me, the fucking lil' leech, but don'tcha worry. Pretty hard to go apathetic with you around to annoy the shit outta me."

A thin smile tugged at the corner of Vergil’s lips. "Imagine what it's like to have _you_ around, then. No wonder I developed such intense emotions, or taught myself to mask them."

Dante laughed, then threw an arm around Vergil's shoulder. "I know, I know. All that love sure is hard to handle."

Vergil huffed. It was the opposite of what he'd meant, but also _exactly_ what he'd been thinking, and Dante loved putting that sorta stuff out there now, to just let his loudmouth spill it out when his more private twin wouldn't. Besides, they’d entirely dodged the question of where Vergil would live now, or more importantly, why Dante had been so up in his feelings about it. Mission accomplished. 

Dante slapped Vergil’s back, then rolled over to regain his place on the bed, spreading out once more. This earned him an immediate slap on the thigh from Vergil, along with grumbling reproaches and something about how great it would be to finally retrieve his full bed. That was a lie, Dante just knew it--if Vergil’s indecision about where he wanted to live was any indication, his twin was gonna miss Dante just as much as Dante missed him. Going home would suck, no doubt about that, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, knowing Vergil would feel the separation too, and could now leave him messages on his nifty jukebox. Afar didn’t have to mean apart. 

****

###

 

Dante’s return flight was right at the same time as Vergil’s exam, so the last words they exchanged was Dante’s finger guns, a cheeky “you show those numbers who’s the real demon”, and then he was hopping into the van without looking back. Everyone went with him--with Amelia and Julio in school, Kyrie had no trouble taking Ticho with her, and the house was briefly entirely his, the quiet perfect to focus on the task at end. With the less-than-stellar studying he’d done over the course of Dante’s stay, he needed all the help he could get.

Life slowly returned to normal after that. Kyrie’s nausea intensified, so Vergil and Nero took most cooking duties upon them and fish was struck out of the menus despite Fortuna’s abundant options in that regard. They continued playing music during the evening and sent a few recordings to Dante. 

Vergil found himself calling more frequently, too, even though using the landline meant standing in the middle of the corridor where everyone could hear. He _did_ love the sound of his brother’s casual “Devil May Cry” and had taken to answering it with “a powerful demon is about to resurrect, Dante” and completing it with a nonsensical demand for help. It had been a jest at first, but Nero had overheard him and made a game out of it with the three children, asking them for ideas of what Dante could do to save the world. So far, Vergil had found himself asking for his twin to wash his underwear, climb the highest point of the city, sing “McDonald’s Farm” as loud as he could, and pet every dog he met for a week. It was utterly ridiculous, but he didn’t have the heart to shoot their game down. Strangely, Dante answered his phone more and more frequently ever since.

With his exams over for a short time, Vergil reopened the research books. He had cross referenced some of Agnus's notes on artificial demon creations with what he'd decyphered about the Black Basins and resurrections, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that demon souls could exist without a body and that with sufficient power, one could force them into bodies not their own. The sludge, then, might very well be a vehicle for this transfer--some matter that could hold souls more easily and facilitate the process. The more Vergil read about the process, the more he wondered how he had reformed his own body, broken though it was. Books were unlikely to have a clear answer on this account, however-- _he_ was unlikely to ever know this. He remembered only the pain, and slowly emerging from it.

Vergil was still digging through an ancient text, head heavy from the large amount of reading and the late hour, when the phone downstairs rang. His heart dropped all the way into his heels, his back went rigid, and he stared at the clock. 

1:37 AM. 

The moment the world did, in fact, break on him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END PART 2.
> 
> Here we are, at the beginning of the end. :) There won't be an Interlude between Part 2 and 3, for obvious cliffhanger reasons.
> 
> I just want to take the opportunity to thank you all so much for the continuous stream of comments and love. We have an estimated 17 chapters to go now (might fuse some while writing, we'll see). Writing and posting this has definitely been one of the highlight of my year, and I'm thrilled to see we're jumping into the last section of it at last.
> 
> See y'all next week for Chapter 33, and the start of Part 3!!!


	33. Unexpected Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Vergil learns of his twin's latest misadventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we begin Part 3! This segment should in theory run until early March. 
> 
> FYI, there's Dadgil Week happening right now. I wrote 3 fics for it, two of which are set in Rebirth's universe. You can go read [Judgement Knit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414577), about Vergil knitting a baby blanket for his grandchild if you want some fluff, and keep an eye out tomorrow evening for the second one, in which he and Nero stay up all night to care for the crying baby.

Vergil ripped the phone receiver off its stand, tension coursing through every inch of his body as he brought it to his ear. His fingers clung the Yamato so tight they’d started cramping and catastrophic scenarios ran through his mind. It was well past midnight--nowhere near a decent hour to call--and something must have happened. He didn’t know what yet and both wished never to hear it and needed to know immediately.

“Yes?” he asked into the phone, voice tight and barely held together.

“Oh, _Vergil_.”

Dante’s intense relief multiplied the panic coursing through him. What was going on? Dante should not be calling at this hour. He should not be surprised or relieved to hear Vergil on the other end. And he should _absolutely not_ let it show to this extent, instead of playing it casual as he always did. All of this was wrong--several layers of wrong.

“What is it, Dante? Do you know what time it is in Fortuna?”

“Time?” A pause on the other side. One could almost hear Dante’s mental calculation. “Oh, right! It’s like the middle of the night. But you’re there! That’s… that’s good.”

Some of Dante’s usual mirth had returned, and for a brief moment Vergil hoped this was all a misunderstanding. "Don't tell me you forgot the existence of timezones."

"Wouldn't have changed shit if I'd remembered,” Dante said, dousing most of those futile hopes immediately. “Listen--ya still have the Yamato, right? It's all safe?"

"Of course." He had no intention of ever losing it again. Why would Dante even ask? What was going on?

"Don't use its powers. Don't let Nero, either."

"Dante, what is--"

"Probably best if you stay in human form, too, and--"

 _"Dante!"_ Vergil snapped, and this time his brother stopped, the nervous instructions coming to a no-doubt temporary pause. "Tell me what happened."

An excruciating minute passed in silence. The longer it lasted, the harder Vergil's heart hammered against his chest. His palms had gone sweaty against the receiver and his entire body buzzed under the tension, making his surroundings fade. Dante heaved a deep sigh, and even through the terrible landline, Vergil heard the rattling in it and how unwilling he was to explain. 

"You were right," he said, and through the fear mounting in him, Vergil experienced, as always, a hint of satisfaction at those words. It didn't last. "We shoulda worried more. There was an attack on Three Hills. I--Ugh.” 

He shuffled on the other end of the line, grunting. Was that pain? Was Dante still wounded? Vergil’s grip on the phone tightened and he set a hand on the wall to steady himself. The entire world vanished, leaving nothing but his panic and Dante’s voice on the other end. What could’ve possibly hurt his brother enough that his healing hadn’t solved the problem already? 

The answer was obvious. Only one demon could do that, besides him. 

Mundus had returned.

“It was dad, Vergil,” Dante said, as if reading his mind. “Sparda kicked my ass.”

The receiver slipped from Vergil’s hand, landing on the side table below with a distant thunk. Vergil never heard it through the pounding in his ears, blood rushing in. For a brief instant, he could feel neither the ground under his bare feet nor the wall against this palm. There was nothing in his sight but the memory of a tall man, white hair swept back, deep purple outfits from times long past--bright wide smiles for them, but ever silent and grim when he thought no one was looking. 

His father, Sparda.

 

###

 

They sped across the highways on two motorcycles--Trish and Lady riding together, Dante with Cavaliere--the three of them crossing in four hours what should've taken seven if they were remotely legal. Who cared? People were dying from some sudden demon invasion. If any police wanted to ticket them, they'd have to catch up first, and then Dante would ram the whole pad through their teeth.

Three hill bumps far in the landscape ahead announced their arrival, and jagged lines of red splitting the sky above confirmed a whole lot of demonic bullshit was happening. Though the plume of black sludge between the city and the broken sky really sealed the deal, if you asked Dante. It was like a mini tornado with slimy appendages, tearing chunks of buildings off and sucking 'em up into Hell. Hopefully authorities had gotten most people out, cause this was already a mess and they hadn't even started fighting back. Dante pushed Cavaliere faster and the girls followed right on his trail. 

They weaved through lesser demons, shooting them down with lightning and bullets, barely slowing to wheel into them every now and then, thinning the numbers by habit more than necessity. The rabble could be cleared later, as long as he got to play with the main event--and that was gonna right with Miss Sludge Tornado over there. Now that they were closer, he could see half the sludge was spinning down, and the other half _back up_ , and that just had to be bad news.

Then he spotted the extra bad news just floating around the rip in the sky.

Beetle wings held a large humanoid demon aloft and steady in the chaotic gust of winds, as familiar to Dante as the downturned ram horns from his head. He’d seen him in every statue on Fortuna, in depictions every time the legend of Sparda was told and, worse of all, he’d seen him every day of their youth, in their childhood home’s backyard, sometimes with one tiny boy under each arm before he took off, the noise of his wings so loud he and Vergil couldn’t hear themselves screaming with glee.

Cavaliere’s front wheel hit a large boulder and Dante went flying off, handles still clutched in his hands as he soared through the air and landed hard on the concrete. Lady and Trish braked into a screeching stop nearby, jumping down the bike to lean over him, smirking. 

“Forgot to watch the road, Dante?” Trish asked, her hair falling down in a curtain above him. 

“Must’ve had my head in the clouds.” Dante pointed past her with a smirk, at the striking figure Sparda cut against the reddened sky. Shit but this didn’t feel right. His stomach had heaved and his head rung, and neither of these things at shit to do with his sudden flight off from Cavaliere. He could feel the _wrongness_ of whatever the fuck was up there, passing itself for Sparda. “We got company.”

They glanced up in perfect sync; Trish whistled, and Lady heaved the Kalina Ann on her shoulder with a barking laugh.

“This isn’t gonna be just another demon hunt, huh?” she asked. 

Trish extended a hand to him, and he accepted the help getting up. “Is it ever?”

Demons had started crowding at the end of the street. Empusa skittered across the ground while chameleon-like creatures swung around lamp posts with their tongues, clinging to them for a brief moment before leaping to the next. Large hellbats flew above, circling the three of them, and an enormous, armoured blob with barely nameable appendices crashed around the nearest corners, visibly made of a fountain, park benches, and a kid’s playground held around the black goop. 

“That’s a lot of _actual_ demons,” Trish commented, tilting her head to the side, “not just sludge-infested ones. We better close this thing fast.”

“I say we bust through and come back for clean up later! Your turn to drive, Trish!” Lady pulled the second Kalina Ann from its hooks along her bike’s side, then clipped both weapons together and hopped behind Trish on the bike, spreading her feet so they’d be more stable. 

“Stealing all the fun parts again, huh?” Trish flicked her hair, lowered her sunglasses back over her eyes, and leaned forward, fingers wrapping around the handles. “Let’s kick it off, babe, and carve our way through!” 

The engine sang under her touch, and their bike was off. Lady set the doubled Kalina Ann on Trish’s shoulder, steadying it and herself as they sped, and shot an intense beam of fiery laser forward, utterly annihilating everything in their path. Dante hopped back on Cavaliere, zooming past the two of them, sniping out the chameleon demons on his way past the girls. They raced through the city, Lady providing cover with bullets and rockets both, Trish occasionally releasing the bike’s handle to shoot lightning at them. Half broken building became more and more common as they neared the center, until both he and Trish were using collapsed roofs as ramps to jump off, zooming above the worst of the damaged buildings. The pair of bikes was a trail of extra destruction and dead demons in an already chaotic city, and the path ended as they reached the main plaza in front of the town hall. They all skidded to a stop to face the three statues waiting for them.

Three Hills had some sort of three-leaders-in-a-rivalry shtick going on, with each of the first lords having claimed one of the three hills of the city, and people fighting over what belonged to which house. Dante had never cared for the details. He did care for the sludge-covered statues of these three original clowns now advancing upon them, their iconic weapons (bow, lance, and axe) in hand. 

“Three of them, three of us,” he said, ignoring the far bigger threat flying almost directly above them, still utterly focused on the tornado of sludge. “Who wants first pick?”

Lady didn’t _want_ things, she took ‘em--in this case by aiming the Kalina Ann at the archer guy and unleashing the first rocket. Trish laughed and brought Agni and Rudra forward. “Pretty lance boy is all mine.”

A whirlwind of ice and fire punctuated her declaration, slamming into the statue and leaving ice-white marks all over his cape on one side, and scorch lines on the other, in his hair and over the eyepatch. Trish followed up by a quick lightning strike, which the lancer deflected, and then she was upon him, twin swords catching the bronze lance while she kicked at her enemy’s chest. 

Elements crackled around them as they fought, and damn, but it looked fun to mix all three, so Dante reached for King Cerberus first, turning to the third, still unoccupied statue. She was a short and stocky girl, and even the bronze-rendering of her axe looked absolutely brutal. Sludge dripped from her horned helmet and the relief in her armour, as if her entire being was seeping it. Dante grinned at her, bringing King C. into a staff and twirling it playfully. 

“You’re out of luck, lil’ lady. I got a lot of practice and a lot of anger to release.”

His first wide swipe sent a wave of flames her way, but she ran right through, ignoring the heat to swing at him. Dante leaped aside, grinning as the rhythm of battle settled his nerves. Still, every time he caught sight of the Sparda-wannabe above while dancing in and out of parries with this statue, Dante’s heart squeezed and anger rose in his chest. The wrongness of it all still reverberated through him, a demonic pulse, his own power churning in response. He wanted to shift, to unleash the whole of his strength in response, rising to the unspoken challenge. 

These three statues were better fighters than most of the sludge-animated demons they’d encountered, but they were still no match. Lady had already blown a leg and half a shoulder off the archer, unbalancing him, and Trish had bent her opponent’s lance in a cute knot. He was playing with his axe lady, making music with King C., a staccato of ice bolts and lightning strikes, his mind admittedly elsewhere. 

If they wanted to close this bullshit portal, they were gonna have to fight this Sparda. And Dante wasn’t gonna do that with anything else than his own Devil Arm. Lady and Trish finished their respective statues almost at the exact same moment--one with an explosion, the other with a brutal punch through the sternum--and whirled on his. Dante grinned, wrapped the frozen nunchuk around her arm, then kicked her right to his two companions. He didn’t need to tell them who _his_ actual target was; they knew him well enough for that.

His heart hammering in chest, the usual easy smile on his lips, Dante sprinted towards the town hall and the tornados of sludge. 

“Hey Sparda!” 

No reaction. He was way down there on the cows’ floor while pseudo-dad floated above, though, so that probably didn’t help. Easy problem to fix, that. With a grin, Dante spotted one of the many tendrils latching onto blocks of concrete and sprinted for it, jumping upon the temporary platform and hitching a ride up. Winds blew his coat and hair about as he lifted up, and the tendril dragged this piece of wall ever closer to the blackened whirlwind. Dante spotted his next mid-air friend and leaped off before he could be dragged into the tornado.

He made his way ever higher like this, from one platform to the next, sometimes even jumping on ridiculously small bits that crumbled right under his feet. He could’ve flown, but this was _fun_ , and the closer he got to the familiar buzz of Sparda’s wings, the less he wanted to shift himself. Couldn’t quite say why, except that this foul little shit didn’t deserve to see him at full strength. Dante finally landed on a bigger and more stable platform, a chunk of roof seemingly caught between the winds from the sludge slamming down into the ground, and the ones from the spiral going back up. Sparda hovered barely thirty feet above, and this close Dante could see the bulging black sludge in the joints of his exoskeleton and the dullness of a once-rich skin. 

“Yo, bug man, why don’t we have a chat?” he called. No reaction again. Dante scowled at this one. More proof that this wasn’t even remotely Sparda, just some sludgy lookalike. “C’mon, I jumped all the way up for this. Show some courtesy! Or maybe you want a lesson?”

He was shit at courtesy too, but hey, swords talked better for him anyway. Dante smirked and extended his hand, stretching out his fingers as he called forth the Devil Sword Dante.

Sparda’s head snapped his way the moment the Devil Sword appeared in Dante’s hands, flames lighting his eyes as his gaze pierced him. A wave of power washed out of the demon, and his hand closed around a thin metal fragment hovering in the air next to him. The enormous portal flared with energy and snapped shut, trapping the black ooze on the other side and putting brutal end to the two tornados. Sickly green fragments gathered around the metallic fragment and Sparda's hand, and Dante's heart leaped into his throat as he understood why it'd seem so familiar. _That_ was a piece of the Yamato, like Balrog had had. To think Vergil and Trish had spent so much energy trying to think of how to open portals when--

Dante’s train of thought was abruptly cut off as the platform under his feet vanished, falling down. His eyes widened and he reached within, for the demon wings that’d keep him afloat. His skin had started to harden when Sparda flew straight at him.

Dante barely registered the movement. One moment this jackass had been hovering quietly, staring at him with his hand clasped around the Yamato shard, and the next he’d reappeared in front of him, intense power washing out of him. He stabbed the Yamato shard in Dante’s wrist, yanked the Devil Sword in the split instant during which his grip loosened, then rammed it directly into Dante’s chest. Intense pain flared through Dante, leaving his mind blank, his ears ringing from more than the constant buzzing of Sparda’s wings. Sludge dripped from cracks in the demon’s chitin, falling in long strands on Dante, who was held aloft only by the sword through his chest. It dug into his skin, craving power, and the Devil Sword Dante responded. Dante’s skin crackled as it transformed completely, growing into hardened ridges and claws, and wings sprouted from his back with a snap--then Sparda twisted the sword into his chest.

Brutal agony burned through him and left him gasping, power coursing undirected across him, scattering his thoughts. As if--as if it couldn’t decide who to respond to--Dante, trying to trigger fully and fight back, or Sparda, holding the sword and messing with it. Dante reached for the Devil Sword, could feel its thrum of energy, the way it was boring a hole through him, how his healing refused to kick in around it, or his devil trigger remained half complete. What the fuck was wrong with him? It had to be the sword, or the sludge, or--fuck, he could barely think.

An explosion rocked him and Sparda, a searing heat wave he felt almost as an echo through the ringing pain.

“Dematerialize the sword, Dante!” 

Trish’s voice, he registered, and with good advice. She could still think, unlike him. He set his mind to it, eager to remove the Devil Sword through his chest--and found another will blocking his own. No matter how hard he pulled on the sword, it wouldn’t vanish. Dante cursed and met Sparda’s eyes.

“You’re some sick shit,” Dante mumbled. “Good ol’ pops wouldn’t stab me like that.”

Except he didn’t understand how a lookalike would have any control over the Devil Sword Dante, or react so strongly to its presence. But this bug bastard, he’d turned the moment he’d sensed it, and now he was fucking around with Dante’s ability to desummon the sword. Every little turn of the Devil Sword inside him hampered his focus until he could only think of the white-hot pain and the dreadful realization that this had to be the real Sparda. No one else would have any control over a Devil Arm made from the Rebellion and the Sparda. No one else could do this to him.

Black sludge dropped onto his cheek as this corrupted Sparda leaned forward, flaming eyes meeting his then sliding downward, to the amulet at his neck, and a deep, raspy growl escaped the other demon.

“Ver...gil…” he muttered.

A wave of anger rose through Dante, washing away much of the pain. This bastard had vanished for decades, left them at Mundus’s mercy, and now he came back as some whatever-the-fuck that broken bug form was, and he couldn’t even tell them apart? Couldn’t recognize Dante by his demonic aura, or Rebellion’s influence within the Devil Sword, or anything else? Dante forced a smile to his lips, pushing past the agony and the way he could feel himself fissure inside, grief and fury and fear threatening to shatter him.

“Here I thought you’d always just pretended to mix us up,” he said, before grabbing the handle of the Devil Sword with both hands. “I got a scoop for ya, dad. All those years I had to clean up your mess? They taught me a trick or two.”

He shoved the Devil Sword Dante even deeper in, bulldozing over Sparda’s considerable pull of power and unleashing the full extent of his devil trigger. The sword resorbed into his body as he snapped his wings out and conjured several fiery swords to force Sparda back, yet the hole in his chest refused to heal. Between the blood gushing out towards the ground and the demands of the transformation, Dante’s strength ran out mere seconds after he’d transformed. His hard skin softened as his wings vanished, and he was plummeting towards the townhall below before he’d truly registered he was all human again. 

Sparda stayed put, watching him fall, and blackness encroached on Dante’s vision until only his father's fiery eyes and downturned horns remained. He barely felt Trish’s arms as she caught him.

Dante’s last thought was that he needed to warn Vergil, who would hate every single thing about this.

 

###

 

“Vergil?”

Dante’s voice was distant in the receiver, but it snapped Vergil out of his daze. He snatched the phone back up. 

“It can’t be him. He’s gone.” It didn't matter what Dante had seen. Vergil refused. This wasn't a reality he could simply accept--the very thought of it made his entire body tremble.

"He snapped to attention the moment I brought forth the Devil Sword, Vergil. He _sensed_ it, knew what was forged within. And he stopped me from desummoning it, too." Dante's voice was rough from exhaustion, jagged by frustration, and tightened by emotion. "I didn't want to believe it either."

Vergil squeezed his eyes shut. There was too much roiling inside of him--anger and hope and terror--he didn't know what he was supposed to feel, or say, or do. He wanted to slam the phone back on the receiver and make this conversation disappear. But none of this would go away--none of it ever did. He needed to face it head on. He gritted his teeth and managed to reply in a controlled tone.

"It doesn't make sense. Why would he reappear now? Why would he attack you?"

"Who said anything about making sense?" Dante countered. "Ya think it made sense to me, when you popped back up after a decade threatening to break dad's seal on the demon world with that fucking tower? 'Cause I sure was wondering what fucked up kind of reality I'd just stepped in, and that's exactly how it feels right now."

"Dante…" He remembered his twin's anger so clearly--how he'd asked why Vergil was siding with demons, as if it had anything to do with such silly notions. It had seemed so naive at the time.

"This bullshit tale isn’t even half over, either. Ya got all the research done, so sit tight while I tell ya what I saw. You might understand more of it than I do. Just keep it shut, listen good, and think it over."

So he did. He listened to Dante’s tale, his heart sinking with every new word, his mind buzzing with possibilities. Could Sparda truly have been alive all this time? Should they have searched for him? What had happened to him, after he’d vanished in their youth? It was _difficult_ to keep his focus on Dante’s words at the end of the line, even though his brother’s voice was the only grounding thing in his world right now. Vergil latched onto it, clinging to decades of discipline to keep the worst of his questions at bay until Dante had finished. 

Then he barely knew where to begin.

Vergil couldn’t decide which part of this tale was worst. Sparda had been an incredibly powerful demon. _If_ he’d died and returned to the Black Basin, then his soul should have taken centuries or more to regenerate his body. That it seeped with black sludge might be an indication it wasn’t finished doing so, but if the theory he’d pieced together through his research was to be trusted, Sparda could never have gotten so close in under four decades. Not, Vergil mentally added, without help.

“What if he’s not himself?” Vergil asked the question aloud, but he didn’t wait for Dante to answer it. “We don’t know if demons retain their memories when they regenerate.”

“He said your name,” Dante pointed out. “Thought he’d gotten us mixed up, but he might be looking for you, too. S’why you should lie low and talk to Trish. You two try and figure out what he was doing with our twin tornados there, while Lady and I will see how we can kill him.”

“Kill him?” They couldn’t kill Sparda. He was their Father, and his power was unrivalled. And-and… Vergil didn’t _want_ to kill him.

“Got a better idea? Good old bug dad ditched us decades ago, bro, and I’m not cutting him favours if he’s only back to fuck up the world _I_ had to protect all this time.” Dante’s voice had wormed its way back into a relaxed, almost mocking cadence, and it was easy to imagine him kick back his chair on its hind legs and set his boots on the office’s desk. “Don’t like it one bit, but I guess some things never change.”

“If he remembered the Sparda or me… he could still be in there, Dante.” _He_ had been. Somewhere trapped in Nelo Angelo’s armour, his own willpower almost completely erased, crushed into submission for the sake of his amulet, Vergil had been there. Could they really give up on Sparda without trying? What if they could get him back, too?

Perhaps Dante heard the unsaid thoughts in his voice, because he sighed. “Maybe.” He didn’t sound like he believed it. “We’ll figure it out when we fight him. For now… you two just be careful. Tell Nero, too.”

“I will.” He had no idea how he’d explain that the surviving Sparda lineage might have expanded in older generations, too, instead of only the forthcoming new one, but he would have to. “Don’t die on us, Dante.”

Vergil hung up to the sound of his twin’s startled laughter, then stared at the phone receiver, his mind reviewing every single detail Dante had provided, exploring possibilities and theories. By the time he startled himself out of his daze, the clock on the wall indicated it was past four in the morning. Vergil ran an exhausted hand over his eyes and through his hair, then moved to the kitchen. He had no idea when he’d next sleep, but it was certainly not today, so he might as well prepare coffee and breakfast for everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Dad. Shoutout to that one time months ago I dropped in my friend's DMs being all "hey do we know what happened to Sparda" and they were immediately worried that I was even asking.
> 
> And yes, those are totally Fire Emblem Three Houses references.


	34. The Nature of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil shares the bad news and learns an important lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. I'm extremely thrilled by everyone's reaction to Sparda hahaha. Thank you all for the fantastic wave of comments last week. <3 Also, if you see me "ignore" chunks of speculation, know that I *love* reading them, I just don't want to respond directly too much!! ^^

The moment Nero laid eyes on Vergil, he knew bad news were coming. 

Nero was still half-awake, nothing on his back but the very loose and light boxers he put on when he left his room, and for a moment he considered just turning away and pretending he’d never gotten up. But Vergil’s eyes had sunken in so far they might pop on the other side of his skull and he was tapping his fingers on a cup of coffee which, judging by the near-empty pot on the counter behind, was far from his first. Nero rubbed his eyes and sighed.

“I know you don’t get much sleep, but you’ve got the look of someone whose mind has been spinning a thousand miles an hour all night.”

Vergil startled at his words, as if he hadn’t quite seen Nero despite his eyes honing in on him as soon as he’d stepped into the kitchen. His lips turned into a flat line, and for a moment he seemed about to deny it. Then his shoulders slumped. “That obvious?”

“Afraid so.”

Nero grabbed a cup from one of the cupboards and poured himself coffee. He was gonna need it. Belatedly, he realized there was a second bowl with what seemed to be batter, and another with the strawberries and blueberries from the fridge all cut up and mixed with sugar. Vergil had been _busy._ Good idea, though. Nero grabbed his coffee cup, but he’d barely lifted it when Vergil interrupted him. 

“You forgot your milk.” 

Nero froze. He _had_ \--which happened almost every morning because his brain was slow to follow his body--but he hadn’t expected Mr. Black Coffee to remember his preference, and even less to notice when his own mind was clearly in big ass chaos mode. He mumbled his thanks, trying to ignore the fucking flutters in his chest at such a simple thing, and got the milk out of the fridge.

“We have to delay training with the Yamato’s powers.”

“We--what?” Nero almost dropped the pint of milk from shock. He slammed it down on the counter and whirled around to glare at Vergil. “You gotta be shitting me.”

Did Vergil actually even wanted to teach him? Fuck, but it felt like every excuse to delay or stick to “basics” was a good one! Either Nero wasn’t ready, or he wasn’t serious enough, or Vergil had an exam, or whatever else crossed his mind! But they never got to proper training, with the long-distance cuts and all the cool shit. What was his problem this time? Then he caught the anguish on Vergil’s face and remembered the kind of idiot he was dealing with, so he raised a hand to forestall any explanation. 

“No, wait. Coffee first.” He poured his milk in, going almost half-half because he wanted to down this one _fast_ , and immediately drank the entire cup. Vergil had exactly zero talent for breaking news, and he’d been spinning his bullshit in his mind all night, which had given him ample opportunity to start with the worst bit possible. Which he probably had. Nero set down the cup and took a deep breath. “All right, asshole. Take two. Why dontcha start at the beginning instead?”

Vergil’s mouth snapped shut and his frown deepened. He seemed to consider his options, blue eyes totally unfocused, before he sighed. “The beginning is no better, I’m afraid.”

“I’d say ‘how much worse can it be’, but I ain’t that dumb. It can always be a whole fucking worse.”

He’d hoped for a smile, however brief, but Vergil instead closed his eyes and let silence stretch between them. This was bad. Super bad. Nero immediately poured himself another cup, emptying the pot. He rinsed it and reached for the beans, keeping his hands busy while Vergil either worked out what to say next or worked up the courage to actually say it. The old man needed his space; Nero just couldn’t stay idle while he gave him that. He had put new water to boil and freshly ground coffee beans at the bottom of the french press by the time Vergil made his attempt at explaining.

“While answering an urgent call for help with a demon attack, Dante…” He trailed off, his fingers stilling from their incessant tap-tap on the coffee cup, his words slow and carefully chosen. Nero hadn’t thought Vergil could look even paler and more tired than when he’d first stepped into the kitchens, but he sure did now. The rest of his explanation came out in a methodical, all-too-detached tone. “Dante fought a demon that looked like our father, the Legendary Dark Knight Sparda, possessed significant power, and recognized the Devil Sword Dante.”

Fuck. That was definitely worse than interrupting training with the Yamato. A truckload worse. Nero stared, his coffee forgotten as the enormity of this bullshit hit him.

“Dante fought Sparda? Actual fucking Sparda?”

Vergil tilted his head forward in assent. 

“Fuck.”

“Sparda… may have been corrupted.” His voice was a whisper now, as if speaking the words any louder would make them more real. “We do not know how much of him is still in there, if any.”

Nero rubbed his eyes. Half of him was starting to think he’d never really woken up and this was just some fucked up dream his brain had come up with. It didn’t feel real. They’d just been settling into some nice routine between quiet family dinners, sparring session and training with the Yamato, or Vergil helping Kyrie with the household while he made his usual demon-hunting rounds with Nico. They hadn’t fought or snapped at each other for a while now, unless he counted those times during his training with the Yamato--but that was just Vergil being a shit teacher. 

“He attacked Dante, no? Most dads don’t go around ripping off their kids’ limbs, ya know.” He dropped into a chair, all casual, but his tongue-his-cheek tone was completely lost on Vergil, who blanched and squeezed his eyes shut again. “Chill out, old man. It’s my arm. _I_ get to joke about it.”

He’d punch Vergil if he ever tried, though, and his left arm was tingling awkwardly as if to remind him it’d been gone for a while. 

“It is no laughing matter, Nero,” Vergil said, his voice tight. “Besides, I hardly think a willingness to attack Dante is a sufficient proof.”

“True, he is an irritating old fuck.”

“ _Nero_ ,” Vergil snapped.

Woah, what the fuck was the Nero of Anger doing there? It’d cracked through the early morning air like a whip, startling Nero and knocking out the remaining haze from sleep. His heart hammering, he glared right back at Vergil. Hadn't he poking fun at Dante with that comment?

“Since when are you that defensive about Dante anyway?”

“It’s not him, it’s--” 

He waved midair then clamped down his hands on the cup of coffee. Nowhere near fast enough for Nero not to notice just how badly they were shaking, though. Vergil pressed his lips together, staring back at him as if daring him to comment on it, and suddenly Nero’s urge to lighten the situation vanished. Vergil could remain exceedingly calm about a lot of things, but those that broke his barriers… those weren’t shit he should make fun of. 

“It’s about you,” he concluded, much more softly, and Vergil immediately relaxed, as if that acknowledgement alone washed away half of his stress.

“No one knows better than I do what demonic corruption can do to your mind. What if Sparda is…”

Vergil never finished his thought, but Nero didn’t need him to. He’d learned enough about Nelo Angelo to piece together what was going on in his father’s mind right now.

“Right.” He sipped at his coffee, not quite seeing what they could do about. At least not here, this morning. Vergil was just torturing himself with what ifs. “So. A corrupted but potentially still alive Sparda is out there, fucking shit up and attacking Dante. This ties to Yamato training… how?”

“According to Dante, he was using a shard of the Yamato to open a portal between the human and the demon world. This, it seems, is how the black sludge you saw at the factory is being transported.” 

The water started boiling, and Vergil pushed himself up before Nero could even think about getting it. His movements were stiff as he went around the table, plucking the kettle up. Nero half-turned around, a hand around his seat. “Thought I’d fixed that sword.”

Vergil poured the water in the French press, allowing the gurgle to fill the silent kitchen as he measured his next words, each passing second increasingly heavy in Nero’s mind. He’d taken great pride in repairing the Yamato, and now…

“You mended its bigger, most important shards, reforming it into a full katana, yet Dante mentioned Balrog also having a shard and using it to travel himself.” He set the kettle down and finally turned around, a bitter smile touching his lips. “It seems the Yamato is more like me than we had concluded. It, too, has… how did you put it? ‘Bits of its soul scattered across the whole damn world’, I believe.”

Well fuck. Nero had already regretted the phrasing the first time, and he did so even more now. "Sorry about that," he muttered before hurriedly drinking from his cup. He'd been freaking out about the Bianco Angelos.

This time, Vergil's smile was a less bitter, more sincere. "Relax, son. It's my soul. _I_ get to joke about it."

Nero choked on the coffee and slammed the cup down. Fucker sure had recovered fast. "Fair enough, asshole. Doesn't explain why I can't train with the damn thing."

"It is not so much the Yamato itself as its powers we will need to avoid." His left hand fell at his side, as if to touch the Yamato's grip, but the katana must still be in his room, where it had to remain. "The same is true of our respective devil abilities, especially full transformations. According to Dante, Sparda ignored him completely until he summoned the Devil Sword Dante--and then he attacked. It seems he… also said my name. If he can perceive us, and if he is looking for me…"

No wonder Vergil had spent the whole night in a panic. He’d already worried whatever bullshit was going out was Mundus’s doing, and now his long-dead dad showed up, corrupted as Vergil had been, and Sparda might be tracking him down? At this rate and considering his record when overwhelmed, it was a fucking miracle Vergil hadn’t fled overnight in some shit and utterly reckless attempt to solve this.

“Ya got a plan?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, the night has not yielded any worthwhile results in that regard.”

Nero couldn’t help his laugh. No surprise there. He wouldn’t have looked half-dead if that was the case. “I got half of one for ya, then,” he said. “First, no disappearing on us. Don’t even think of leaving.”

“How did you--”

“C’mon. I’m learning.” Nero smirked at him, provoking a small huff from Vergil. Rather than trying to come up with a retort, he turned to the coffee and pressed it down. Nero allowed himself the moment of smugness from so easily reading his dad's mind. “So no vanishing act, and no doing shit without explaining it to anyone. You’re not alone.”

"I know," Vergil admitted, letting his voice fall almost into a whisper. "I may have learned it the hard way, but I know."

He started pouring himself a new cup, so Nero extended his own for a partial refill. Vergil already seemed calmer, though how much of it was a carefully cultivated façade remained to be seen.

"Dante got a plan?" 

"Does praying Trish and Lady come up with one count?"

Nero grimaced. "I mean, kinda. Trish had the brains to infiltrate the Order rather than roll in and shoot the pope, so… They're more likely than him to think of something." This time his quick jab at Dante did get a snort out of Vergil. Good sign. Nero sipped more of his coffee then set it down. "Here's my plan, at least for the day. We cook those crepes together and let the sweet scent wake up everyone. Once breakfast is done, you come with me. I'm on crib-buying duty and I got no fucking clue what's good, and I might need a second pair of hands to avoid busting my own demon arms--they don't like that much in Fortuna, and it'd go against your new no-powers rule. I think Kyrie could use your fancy-schmancy planner, because she's been rattling baby-needs at me for days without writing anything down. Why don't you sit down with her this afternoon? It'll settle her nerves."

Vergil returned to his chair as Nero spoke but he did not sit down. "None of this has anything to do with Sparda."

"No. It has to do with you, old man, and your spinning little mind. Life ain't gonna stop turning because your legendary daddy showed up--I’d know. You gotta keep your brain busy or it'll kill you before any demons do. We'll call Dante again tonight and make sure he ain’t rushing into it like an idiot either.”

He wondered if Dante would pull that kind of shit on him, even after the Qliphoth and supposedly leaving the human world in his hands, but he hadn’t told Nero shit about the sludge, had he? Would Nero have even fought at the factory, if he hadn’t been the one answering Trish’s call? Despite everything, Dante rarely treated him like a partner still. 

“Nero.” 

Now that was a weird tone to say his name in, halfway between the underlying scolding of the Nero of Anger and the soft prodding Vergil usually imbued in the Nero of Communication. He examined his father’s face, trying to decypher what might be going through it. Vergil focused on his coffee for a moment, then met his eyes.

“Whatever our plan, we are not leaving without you. You’ve proven you’re more than capable of handling any fight. Even if this one is…”

Nero stiffened. When had his old man gotten so perceptive? A small laugh escaped him, sharpened by the thickness of his throat, but a soft warmth buzzed through his entire body. Vergil smiled over the rim of his cup of coffee.

“I am learning, too,” he pointed out, and this time Nero’s laugh was a lot more frank.

“Miracles happen,” he said. “Didn’t think your old brain had the plasticity or whatever for it. Anyway. Plan sounds good to ya?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. ‘Cause my stomach’s screamin’ for some crepes.” Nero jumped to his feet and almost snapped his blue arms out, to speed up the cooking process. He’d gotten so used to the extra pair of hands, it’d be a challenge to keep their use to a minimum in his everyday life as much as when sparring and fighting. “And y’know what? I don’t think we need to stop training with the Yamato. This just sounds like the perfect opportunity for your boring posture lessons and whatnot.”

Vergil pushed himself out of his chair, his smile widening. The bags under his eyes hadn’t diminished, but he no longer fiddled with everything his fingers touched, and his shoulders had straightened to some extent. “Ah, so we’ll be doing proper training after all.”

Nero stuck his tongue at Vergil. ‘Proper’ was the word he’d used to mean training to master the Yamato’s power, not the most mundane elements, and now his father was turning it back on him.

“Sure, whatever,” he conceded, before retrieving two pans and placing them down on the oven. “Let’s get cooking.”

###

 

In the end, they followed Nero’s plan to the letter. At first, Vergil could not help but feel they were wilfully ignoring the danger and that it would do no good to turn away from it and wait for the axe to fall. He stared at the batter slowly cooking into crepes under Nero’s watchful gaze, his mind drifting away to memories of his youth--to afternoons training outside with his father, smashing wooden swords in a desperate and fruitless attempt to land a hit, or to the rare occasions Sparda had ask Vergil to play a few notes on his violin in order to hear them and help him compose. Their father had never spoken much and was often absent altogether, yet those few moments had been enshrined in Vergil’s mind as an ideal to achieve: untouchable, inscrutable, and mysterious.

He had failed, miserably so, yet the more he allowed his fragile walls down, the closer he became to Nero, and Vergil found himself valuing the exchange of smiles more than anything else. And when he slipped too far away into his mind, Nero found something to occupy his hands--stir the fruits, place plates on the table, use his newly-acquired “google-fu” (whatever that was) to learn about buying a crib--and it brought him back to the present. They ate together, helped Amelia and Julio get ready for school, then promised Kyrie to be back in time for lunch and headed out.

Vergil helped Nero select a crib, testing their solidity or inspecting how the mattress fit within it, and whether it was firm enough or could be adjusted, reading lists of tips off his cracked cellphone. They called Nico to pick them up once a winner had been selected--a simple but elegant wooden crib, old but still solid, like their home--and even stopped by the library, where they took out several books on pregnancy and parenting. The young librarian who checked them out smiled at Nico and Nero, very obviously mistaking the relationship there, only to grow beet red when Nico commented on it exceedingly loudly, pushing Nero away with a grimace and a “I ain’t gettin’ no baby from this punk.”

The two of them left on a hunting routine round in the afternoon, while he gave Kyrie a hand cleaning the house. When he followed Nero’s suggestion and offered to dedicate a page in his planner to the future baby’s needs, she brightened and immediately interrupted her repair work on Julio’s pants, dragging him to the kitchen. They dug through the just-loaned books for tips and lists to serve as inspiration and built their own. Kyrie chatted away, filling his tired silence with her hopes, soft afternoon light adding golden hues to her auburn hair. Vergil basked in her smile and watched their list grow, one item at a time, plans for the future unfurling before him.

The day did not feel real. It was a lie, hiding the reality that had hit overnight, the way his world had broken on him again, just as he’d told Dante at the end of his visit in Fortuna. Yet Vergil had expected everything to be ripped from his hands once that happened--he had thought to wind up alone, to lose everything once more, including perhaps even himself. Instead, life had kept crawling by, with its little family moments and its potential future, and he saw what Nero had meant him to.

This life was as real and concrete as Sparda’s return and Mundus’s potential involvement. It was theirs, meant to be experienced fully, to be enjoyed and cherished no matter the threat looming. As he sat in the kitchen with Kyrie, flipping through images of baby blankets and toys, Vergil finally stopped thinking of his happiness as an illusion destined to shatter. It was a gift, and he would protect it with everything he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early Rebirth: Nero constantly stares at Vergil and has no clue what he's thinking and just wants to kick his ass  
> Current Rebirth: Nero and Vergil read each others' moods and manage to guess at the unspoken issues.
> 
> I love this chapter so much for all the soft ways it marks how much these characters have evolved. <3


	35. Facts and Hypotheses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gang assembles to try and understand what's happening.

As much as Dante liked to pretend he didn't need any new fangled tech, it was pretty damn cool to see Vergil, Nero, and Nico on Lady's laptop screen. She'd brought it into "his den of antiquated detritus", as she now called the _Devil May Cry_ , and the three of them had piled onto the couch for a demon hunting conference call. It kinda hurt, to have the two girls pressed against his sides like that, but Dante kept that quiet. He'd mostly healed, after all. Just a matter of hours for all traces of his brutal face-off with Sparda to be gone.

And then he'd be ready for round two.

Dante couldn't believe he'd been caught so off-guard--like a damn beginner who couldn't handle a surprise or two! First Sparda, then the Yamato shard… fuck, but he should have been a tad more prepared. He'd never thought good old pops would show up like that. Even after seeing him, he’d been convinced the Sparda-like appearance was meant to scare off others but had no real substance. Well, Dante wasn't so much scared as downright pissed off now. None of the bullshit in his life would've happened if Sparda hadn't abandoned them, leaving Dante to clean up behind him. He’d saved what he could--even the whole world, on a few occasions--yet never Vergil, not by himself. Every damn time he’d upheld Sparda’s legacy and protected the human world, his twin had paid the price. They both had--Vergil with his life, and Dante in secret wounds he’d only begun to heal over the last few months, and which would always leave ugly scars. They had needed Sparda, and he’d vanished. Whatever his excuse, Dante would relish the opportunity to give him a piece of his mind. 

Lady’s elbow in his ribs snapped him back to the conversation. They’d all been going back and forth, throwing hypotheses about that weird ass sludge around, comparing them with whatever Vergil had found in his dusty books. It’d been boring as hell, but they’d insisted he should sit through it as the closest witness to this new Sparda-shaped layer of bullshit.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled. “Was thinking of pizza. What were y’all saying?”

Nero rolled his eyes at him, so Dante grinned at the screen harder. The boy was a tad too easy to infuriate--he couldn't resist! Kid was playing with a screwdriver, spinning it restlessly between his fingers, and Dante suspected he didn't enjoy sitting still either.

"Ya said he was holding a portal to Hell open with the Yamato shard," Nero said. "Did ya get a look at what was on the other side?" 

"Nope!" This earned him a collection of grunts and sighs. "Hey, I was kinda busy staring at good ol' dad doing all this nasty shit!"

"There must have been an objective," Vergil said. "We've never seen them drag anything back to Hell before."

"We’ve never seen the sludge appear either,” Lady pointed out. “Always got there way after. So it might’ve done that before and we wouldn’t know shit.”

“What if it’s gathering materials?” Nico’s voice came from offscreen, and a second later she shoved her hand in Nero’s face, pushing him aside under a flurry of swears and protests. Vergil’s lips tightened as he very obviously fought his smile. “Y’all think this sludge is from your Black Basin or whatever, right? Soul-rebirth-regen thing for demons? ‘Cause my daddy’s notes, they say souls can’t just hover without physical support. He tried, but he always had to attach ‘em to something.”

“What are you saying? They wanna shove demon souls into concrete?” Dante snorted. “It's nowhere as stylish as chitin and claws and bodies of void, no?”

“Could it be out of necessity?” Lady was tapping the side of her guns. “We killed a lot of demons over the last half-year, in the Qliphoth, its aftermath, and now with this bullshit. Can demon souls overflow? Could they need to find a home faster than they can create bodies?”

“Demons kill each other in such numbers all the time.” Trish shook her head, and her blonde hair tickled Dante’s nose. He huffed and tried to brush it aside--a mistake. Trish smirked at him and leaned closer, letting her hair fall all over his face before she went on. “The Black Basin is a natural feature of Hell. None of our research turned up any clues of a substance like the sludge reaching the human world--not that it’s any proof, but… I can’t help but think someone’s messing with the thing, stopping its flow.”

_Someone_. Vergil’s expression stiffened into a familiar mask--one Dante hadn’t seen in months now, not since he’d gone to Fortuna. Used to be, he always kept that stone face, like nothing could truly affect him. Now it felt weird to see it, and Dante hated the steps back it represented. No need to ask which ‘someone’ his brother had on his mind. 

“Literally a backed-up toilet, huh?” he commented. Lady ribbed him, but Nico snorted with laughter, so that was totally a win for him. “What for? Shits and giggles?”

“Power.”

That word out of Vergil’s mouth was every bad memory Dante wanted to keep buried condensed in one bitter punch. He hated it, even if Vergil wasn’t using it for himself. He had this distant look again and Dante shoved his hands under his armpits to avoid reaching for the screen. He was relieved to see Nero’s hand land on his father’s shoulder--exactly as he’d have done. In the heavy silence, they all heard Vergil’s steadying breath.

“Demons with unique names are rare; most share a breed’s name, with perhaps the occasional specification, as we’ve seen with King Cerberus. The name is their identity, their shape, and their power. It’s how hordes come to be, or so we think. Hundreds or thousands of demons with the same name, the same appearance, the same strength… Once you rename a demon, you change it.” He stopped, and his eyes sought the camera--sought him, Dante knew. “I think… I think this is why Mundus renamed me, when…”

“But you were in there.” Dante touched the amulet at his neck--Vergil’s half--and watched as his twin did the same, reaching for Dante’s. “Nelo Angelo recognized this. It fucked him up.”

“Well, I am not all demon, am I?” Vergil replied, a hint of hysterical laugh in his tone. “More to the point, these unique demons take more time to regenerate. It must not please them. Perhaps one of them is trying to divert the Black Basin’s resources towards themselves while depriving others of the opportunity to regenerate. Dante… how good was the seal you put on him?”

“Erm.” No need to ask who ‘him’ was, in this case. Dante glanced at Trish, hesitant. It hadn’t exactly been an intentional seal, if it was one at all. “I kicked his ass repeatedly and then shoved what was left of him back in the demon world, closing the door behind him?”

“You… you didn’t…” 

Vergil could’ve been sick right there and then, and Dante wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d grown paler and collapsed on himself as if something had punched his guts. Guilt surged through Dante, but the idea he’d have prepared an elaborate seal like a multi-layered tower with secret rituals was just preposterous. “Look, I’m not dad, all right? Seals and rituals and shit? That’s not up my alley. I kill whatever crosses the gate and fucks with the human world, that's it.”

“Whatever,” Nero interrupted. “Let’s just kick his ass all over again and be done with it. If Dante could do it back then, this bastard’s got nothing on us now.”

That was the spirit! Dante grinned at his nephew and wished he could ruffle his hair up as a thank you. Vergil’s shoulders had lowered, relaxing ever so slightly. 

“What if it ain’t him?” The question flew out of Dante before he could think twice about it. Maybe he was just a dumbass again, but it felt like they’d all jumped to Mundus when a much more obvious answer stared at them in the face. He hated it, but if he’d learned one thing over the last decades, it was to expect fucked up shit to breeze through his life with no shame about itself at all. “What if it’s Sparda, doing all this shit?”

“Father would never--”

“He’s not exactly himself, is he?” Dante cut off, and wow did Vergil manage to chill the whole _Devil May Cry_ with a glare even from across the ocean. Dante extricated himself from half-under Lady and Trish, leaning towards the tiny screen. “Might be dad’s trashing the whole damn place tryin’ to mindlessly rebuild his body. We don’t _know_ Mundus is involved. We know Sparda is, though.”

To his surprise, no one had a counter for him. Silence snaked in between them, uneasy, and Dante was about as stunned as anyone not to be shut down with logic. Kinda hated it, too. He didn’t want it to be Sparda--it was fucked up enough to have him show up like that, the idea that he might be the source of this recent bullshit just stank.

“Dante…” Vergil’s whisper was a plea, though for what, Dante had no fucking clue.

“I don’t like it either, bro,” he said.

Vergil’s shoulders slumped. He threaded fingers through his hair, slicking back those that had fallen out of place, and Dante couldn’t help but smirk at how he visibly drew strength from the movement. “Regardless,” Vergil started, and his voice had regained its habitual tight control, “if our theories are correct, I believe the solution lies in locating the Black Basin and destroying the source of this overflow, as well as the Yamato shard permitting travel to the human world.”

“Why not bust the whole regeneration cycle?” Nero asked. “I can’t be the only one thinking we should just demolish the sludge baths and stop demons from coming back to life at all!”

“I’m all in for the explosive solution,” Lady concurred. “Might put us all out of work, but I _guess_ the human lives saved might be worth it.”

Dante snorted. “Permanent fix, huh?” He had to admit, it had a nice ring to it. He’d miss the hunting thrill, but even without their little regeneration spa, the remaining demons would find their way to fucking shit up for a while still.

“Where would the souls go, then?” Trish asked. “We might cause even bigger problems.”

“As long as they’re in Hell, they wouldn’t be our problem,” Lady pointed out.

“They ain’t gonna chill in the demon world forever,” Nico said. “Just takes one human messing with shit they shouldn’t.”

Nero laughed and pushed her shoulder. “You say that like you wouldn’t be first in line to fuck us all over with some weirdo experiment.”

“Ya complainin’? There wouldn’t be any breakers without my weirdo experiments, dumbass. You just don’t appreciate the balance of art and science in my work. Goin’ around and destroying shit like a brute!”

“ _Or_ ya just like to pretend you know what you’re doing when we all know you poke at shit until it explodes or you stumble on a winner.”

Dante snorted as the two went on bickering, to Vergil’s obvious dismay. His brother turned the camera away from Nero and Nico with a shake of his head. “I do believe Nicoletta has a point,” he said quietly. “We cannot assume souls trapped in Hell will remain there.”

“We ain’t destroying anything tonight anyway, are we?” Dante scratched his chin and the beard stubble there. “We gotta find the place. It ain’t gonna stand out like the Qliphoth’s roots.”

“Perhaps not, but we should consider returning to Hell to seek it nonetheless. Perhaps I can decypher clues…” Vergil trailed off, gaze going to a point off camera before snapping back. Dante thought he might have heard Kyrie’s voice, and indeed, his twin changed subject. “Our dinner is ready. Keep in touch, Dante. I will see what I can find.”

Dante grinned at the laptop. “Counting on ya, big bro. And don’t stress it. If you can’t find anything in the next two weeks, we’ll just take a family stroll to Hell and solve this problem, no biggie. All of this is just one more day in the long string of weirdness that's my life. You get used to it.”

He slammed the screen shut, provoking a hiss from Lady, who grumbled about him not taking good care of her hardware and threatened to send a bill for any repairs to Vergil. Dante fell back into the couch as she snatched it up, clearly eager to store it somewhere safe. He hoped he’d sounded half as relaxed as he’d wanted to, telling Vergil to take it easy, because his own stomach was a bunch of shitty knots right now.

“I think this situation calls for emergency supplies,” he declared.

Lady turned around, laptop still in hand, eyebrows shooting up. “More guns?”

Trish snorted and kicked her legs up in his lap, laying down on what was left of the couch. “Devil Arms?” she suggested noncommittally. “Those are just regular supplies.”

Dante grinned at her. Trish could totally tell he had something different in mind. “Yeah, nothing special there. Freddi’s strawberry sundaes, though…”

Trish burst out laughing while Lady rolled her eyes. She stuffed her laptop in her bag, turning away to hide her smile. “Just as much a dumbass as the first day we met.”

And maybe he was, but if that was true, well, he was also a much happier dumbass than back then, and he had no intention of letting that slip through his fingers, whether that meant killing Mundus or Sparda or any other damn demon out there.

###

It was an undeniably lucky happenstance that Sparda's sudden arrival into the picture happened so soon after Vergil's biggest accounting exams to date, since studying suddenly became a rock-bottom priority. The first night after the conference call, Vergil retired to his rooms as soon as dinner was done, reopening his research books and spreading his notes on the desk. There had to be a clue he had missed, something with which they could locate the Black Basin--either in these texts, or in his faulty memories. He must have been there himself, no? Nothing else made sense. If Nico was right and souls needed a physical anchor, and he'd rebuilt his body, then chances were he'd been in the basin along with other demons. If only he remembered more than brutal agony… But maybe something in there would spur his memories. It was as good a place as any to start, and he could discuss any findings with Trish--she, too, must have come from it.

He didn't sleep the first night, only emerging from his room to grab coffee and leftover crepes. Words were starting to blur before his eyes, the coffee no longer enough to keep his mind sharp, and he quietly wondered if he should resort to the secret weapon of his youth, but he didn't think there was any regular chips for him to douse in vinegar in the house at the moment, and he refused to waste time getting some. No choice but to push through.

By the end of the afternoon, Nero had invaded his room, dragging him out while ranting about how Vergil had learned absolutely nothing about balance and how dare he leave Kyrie alone with the household tasks when she was pregnant, and how if he wanted to be thrown out, this was totally the way. Vergil followed in a daze as Nero first forced him to fold the laundry, then plopped Tycho on his lap because the kid wanted to play and Kyrie had her hands full from dinner. Evening was dedicated to helping Amelia and Julio with their homework, after which Vergil had grown so exhausted he finally managed to sleep. He was up before the sun, back to his research, but this time when the household stirred, he left the books behind to help with the pre-school morning routine.

Nero continued to hound him over the next week, for which Vergil was grateful despite how irritating it could be. He struggled to stop thinking of the Black Basin no matter what he did, dread building up inside of him whether he was trying to unravel obscure demonic imagery or doing the dishes. But Nero was right: his life hadn't stopped yet, and he needed to do his best and enjoy it before he forgot what mattered. It was so easy to slip, to find himself wondering once more if he should look for a new source of power, something to defend his family with. On days when his mind wouldn't stop spinning and even music--whether by summoned swords or violin--didn't soothe him, he took refuge in the _Devil May Cry_ van.

Nico had also dug into research, experimenting on the demon-shaped black sludge he’d gifted her, and which they both agreed was likely to contain a single demon soul, trying to recreate its body from the basin’s ooze. She’d given it shattered glass and paper, and it had almost immediately integrated these into its shape, growing sharp claws from the glass at the end of its four tiny legs, and half-masking the sludge with the paper, as if to protect itself. She’d suggested Vergil should stab it with the Yamato to see the transformation into crystals and try to rip the soul out, but he was wary of using the katana, and once he’d pointed out she’d lose her test subject, she’d quickly abandoned the idea. Staying in the van let Vergil feel like he was doing something about the situation, even when he sewed yet another patch on Julio’s torn pants instead of researching, or when Nico worked on the dragonfly mobile Kyrie had asked of her for the baby, asking about his opinion on experimental fabrics to get the perfect shimmer for the wings.

One day Kyrie and Nero returned from the doctor’s appointment with a tiny black and white picture of their future baby. It looked utterly minuscule and fragile, and a quiet awe filled Nero’s voice as he pointed out the legs and arms to him. Vergil’s hands shook as he lifted the photo to examine it from up close, the warm flutters in his chest threatening to rise and turn into tears. He focused on Kyrie’s voice as she informed him the baby had a strong heartbeat and that everything was going perfectly well; in fact, the baby had moved quite a lot around while they were watching. Vergil handed her the picture, and wrestled his emotion under control to ask with a slight smirk. “Only one, huh?”

She laughed and shook her head. “With three others already running around our home, one is more than enough to start with, don’t you think, Mr. Vergil?”

They sent the picture to Dante, who immediately called back to bombard Kyrie with questions on the phone, all pretense of casual-Dante gone to the wind. He asked about the name, if they knew the sex yet, if her belly was showing, if she was still sick all the time or took a lot of naps (he recommended naps, to no one’s surprise), and Vergil couldn’t help but wonder at how much Dante seemed to _know_ about these things. Had the girls filled him in? Neither Lady nor Trish struck him as the type to be well-informed about pregnancy. When asked if he’d been reading up, he scoffed and replied he was a natural font of knowledge, which was how Vergil knew with absolute certainty he had, in fact, picked up a book.

They waited after dinner to show the three foster children the ultrasound. Julio and Tycho brimmed with childish wonder at the sight of it, launching into imagined futures with their new sibling, Tycho giggling as Julio gesticulated to emphasize his stories. Amelia watched with a slight frown, and Vergil would’ve sworn she’d almost glared at the picture. Kyrie must have caught it, too--she gently pulled her closer, provoking a sniff from the young girl, along with a whispered question.

“We won’t have to go away, will we? Once you get a baby that’s really yours.”

It was so quiet Vergil almost missed it, and he did his best to conceal his reaction and act as though that was the case--Amelia had always been proud, and this had not been meant for him to hear. 

Kyrie kissed her forehead, hands on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, you’ll always be ours too. Blood relationships is just one way to build a family. No one is going away.”

“P-promise?” she asked, and Vergil forcibly turned away when he noticed her eyes wet with tears.

“Promise.”

“O-okay.” Amelia threw herself on Kyrie for a tight hug. “I-I like it here. Everyone, even Mr. Vergil.”

Vergil choked and pretended to be very absorbed by Julio’s descriptions of him throwing the baby “very high up in the air--higher than Nero and his cool arms!”, suddenly glad for years of practice keeping a neutral expression. How strange, to realize he had never thought of Nero’s three orphans as grandchildren, even though he’d lived with them and been a part of their lives for more than two months now. They didn’t have demon blood--Sparda’s blood--and that made a difference, at least to him, yet now he found himself wondering what kind of adults they would grow into, and if he couldn’t be more to them than Nero’s stiff, recently-returned father.

He spent the rest of the night pondering the thought and his place in this little family Nero had assembled in his absence, the Black Basin far from his mind for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conjectures!!!
> 
> Also I don't think I've ever said it clearly but YES they basically adopted all three kids. XD


	36. The Yamato's Wielder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil's and Nero's training with the Yamato gets interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :] :] :]

At Vergil’s suggestion, he and Nero had taken a morning together, hiked their way into a clearing in the Mithis Forest, and finally gotten started on these infamous iaido basics. Nero relished the chance to practice, even if it meant dealing with Vergil’s sighs and scoffs every time he got something wrong. More importantly, he was glad to see Vergil take himself away from the incessant research, even for half a day. Sometimes, Nero would swear his old man was more anxiety than demon, and he didn’t get it. Sure, he worried too--and he’d taken plenty of long runs around the neighbourhood to vent some of that energy--but Vergil let it eat him alive until he couldn’t see anything else.

Nero had expected him to be distracted this morning, but if his mind was elsewhere than on the training, it didn’t show. He caught every damn mistake, forcing Nero to repeat the exercises over and over, drawing and cutting over and over until Vergil finally mumbled about a “semblance of fluidity” in the movement. Nero didn’t count how often he got scolded for his grip in the span of two hours, nor the amount of time he had to resist conjuring his blue arms for a surprise-punch to vent some frustration.

At least they were slowly getting somewhere, as demonstrated by Vergil’s suggestion that they could start a second standard form, rather than returning to the kata he’d repeated all morning. He’d returned next to Nero, no doubt about to ask for the Yamato to demonstrate, when the soft bop of the iBreaker’s ringtone filled the clearing.

Nero instantly knew something was wrong. He'd had it on the Busy settings, which meant everything except Kyrie would go straight to voicemail, and she knew only to call in emergencies.

He let the Yamato's tip hit the ground, ignored Vergil's scowl and the hammering of his chest, and hit the answer button.

"Kyrie?"

"Nero!" His heart stopped short at the panic and breathlessness in her voice, and a surge of demon energy roiled at the bottom of his stomach.

"I'm here. I'm here, Kyrie. What's going on?"

Vergil stepped closer to him, hovering above his shoulder to better hear her. At the edge of his mind, Nero could feel his father's power swirling, too. Dozens of catastrophic scenarios ran through his mind, from a demon attack to something about the baby. _Please_ , he thought. Not the baby. The last ultrasound had been fine. Kyrie wasn’t experiencing anything out of the ordinary, though her nausea had gotten worse. There was no reason--none at all--for it to be something wrong with the baby.

He still prayed to whatever gods or fate-demons out there that it wasn’t the baby.

“It’s the van, it--Nico--”

Nero couldn’t help the wave of relief passing through him. _The van_. Just the van. What the fuck had Nico done this time?

“Nero, you have to come.” The urgency in Kyrie’s voice called him back to order, dousing his relief. She seemed less panicked, but Kyrie had lived through so much, she knew how to recenter herself in the middle of a disaster. When she spoke again, her voice was clipped and to the point, reminding him of how she’d organized rescue missions and shelter areas in the aftermath of the Order-provoked demon invasion. “Something in the van exploded while Nico was in it. The whole vehicle is covered in a black substance, and your Devil Breakers--” A sharp explosion interrupted her, then a child’s scream. “Tycho, no!”

The phone clang as it was dropped, hanging at the edge of its cord.

“Kyrie?” Nero’s grip on the Yamato tightened until it hurt and he stared at the iBreaker’s dark screen, ears perked up for any sound, any clue as to what was going on. He counted the seconds--one… two… Vergil’s hand steadied his back, but nothing could slow the frantic hammering of his heart. It _had_ to be the same sludge as what they’d fought with Dante, and if it possessed objects… The whole fucking van was full of weapons. “Kyrie!”

They heard her, distantly at first, gently scolding Tycho. Heard his whine grow closer, until she picked up the phone again, slightly out of breath. “I’m here, I’m back.”

Relief turned his legs into wool. Nero couldn’t have her stay in the house, couldn’t risk losing her. Even the idea of it happening tightened his chest until it hurt and he could barely think. “You gotta get out of the house now, Kyrie. Go somewhere safe.”

“I-I know, but what about Nico? Nero, I think she’s trapped in the van!”

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Kyrie couldn’t do anything about it, but they were so far, and if Kyrie stayed something could--

“Kyrie.” Vergil’s voice sliced through the conversation and Nero’s own spinning thoughts--sharp, cold, and calm. The fingers on Nero’s shoulder had clenched tighter, contrasting with his tone. “Leave Nico to us. We’ll be there in a moment.”

A moment? Nero scowled. They were a good hour away from the house, even running back. Nico would be long dead by then!

“O-Okay, Mr. Vergil.” Kyrie took a deep breath, and Nero could easily imagine her leaning on the wall and gathering her courage. “I’m counting on you.”

She hung up, and Nero whirled on his father. Before he could get a word out, however, Vergil caught his gaze.

“Nero, do you remember what I told you about using the Yamato’s powers or our own devil forms?”

He’d said not to, because Sparda and sludge and stealthiness and blah blah blah. Where the fuck did he want to go with this? They didn’t have time for lessons about carefulness and being detected and whatnot: demons were already in his home, threatening his family. Why did it always have to be the fucking garage?

“What about it?” he demanded.

A strange determination shone in Vergil’s gaze and he slid next to Nero with dangerous grace. Calloused fingers wrapped over his son’s hand, around the Yamato’s grip, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. “Well, I daresay… fuck that.”

The Yamato sang under Nero’s palms, cold power coming to life as Vergil reached for it. The surge coursed through Nero’s mind, a crystal clear note, and his sense of space heightened far beyond its usual scope. For a brief instant, he could almost touch the veil between human and demon world, and its presence felt as obvious as the air they breathed. Was this how Vergil perceived the world around him every time he wielded the katana? Did understanding and power always course through him, just beyond the scope of his mind yet no less concrete or mastered?

Vergil’s fingers tightened around his, and Nero perceived his intent, his father’s will passing through him and the Yamato without a single word spoken. He left his questions behind and focused on the task at hand, on Nico and his garage, on their destination.

Nero slashed the katana twice, top to bottom first, then across, and the veil curled outward, time and space undone by the Yamato’s powers. They stepped through the portal together.

###

Black sludge drenched the _Devil May Cry_ van, clinging to the flickering neon and roiling out of the open door. It seemed to crawl out with a life of its own, tendrils seeking and reaching, some of them slamming into the concrete floor as if to take root within it. At least a dozen devil breakers were flying across the room, dripping ooze, sometimes running through Ragtime-created pockets of timespace. A blue Overture sparked, only to be shot by a beam of white light from a Gerbera and explode midair. Vergil had time to wonder if they were fighting each other when a Punchline came flying through the smoke at them. He and Nero each jumped to one side, avoiding the hit.

“Hey, no--!” Nico’s angry exclamation buried even the chaos of fighting breakers, emerging from the van almost like it was distorted. “Don’t you dare, you lil’ sh-- _ah!_ ”

The sharp scream of pain jolted Vergil into action. Devil power burst out of him as wings snapped behind his back and he flew across the garage. A shower of black sludge blocked his entrance, but that was nothing he couldn’t cut his way through. He sent his edge forward for a judgement cut, distorting timespace as he moved in a few quick slices, clearing the way ahead long before he reached it. The black substance turned into sickly crystals and shattered before he reached it, opening the door to him, and it wasn’t until Vergil was flying through the created space that he realised he _wasn’t_ holding the Yamato--Nero had kept it. He should never have been able to do that.

With a grunt, he slammed his shock down. No time to think to think of it now: Nico was trapped behind her counter, fighting off a construction of sludge and tools with her zapping stick. A red gash was already opened across her midriff and considering the haphazard way she waved her impromptu weapon, it wouldn’t be long before this animated demon got her. Vergil sent a dozen summoned swords after it, stabbing the construct repeatedly. He realized his mistake when it turned around, barely affected, and every single drop of black ooze in the van suddenly flew towards him.

There had been a lot of it, on the table and couches and front seats, dripping from the ceiling, surging out of the shower and smashing the wall there--and all of it swirled into a sphere spinning around him, forming a seamless trap. His skin crackled with power, his heart clenched, and his mind scrambled, seeking an escape, a way to flee the incoming pain, the promised torture he instinctively recognized and remembered. This had happened before, happened so often.

_The heart is a tumour_ _of weakness._

Mundus’s words, his voice echoing through every inch of Vergil, seeping into his very being, seizing control.

Black sludge closing in, digging into his wounds, his body, his mind. His fingers, stretching out, towards the Yamato, just out of reach.

No ego, no memories. No one to protect him.

Only more power.

_Your new name will be…_

“V-man!”

_V._

“Come on, V-man, get outta there!”

Nico’s voice clamped down on him, dragging him back to the present, the now. The whole of him, rebuilt through V’s courage, his refusal to give up--through his humanity. Vergil gasped, choking as ooze plunged into his throat. Raw power coursed through his body, intense agony spreading alongside it. He fought the pain, fought the panic as the sludge clung to his all-too-human body, his skin cracking under it. The world had gone black. He needed to get out--needed--needed to think. Protect his soul, mismatched quilt of damaged parts though it was. If he could cut through, cut _out_. Yes. If he used his edge to cut out…

Vergil ground himself in that strange, instinctual sharpness, as if his entire being was honed for one purpose. Space unfolded around him in elegant, sketched lines, tracing a new awareness of the surroundings: his body, held up as stalagmites of sludge crawled over his leg from the ground or wrapped around his head from the ceiling; Nicoletta, leaning against the wall, a hand over her wound; the chaos of the van, amplified tenfold as objects of all sorts gathered into impossible amalgams of demonic energy.

He was not in Hell. He was not with Mundus. And he refused to break again.

Vergil cast himself out, a thousand cuts through the van, bright blue lines flaring across the demonic sludge in the span of a second as he sliced it apart, excising the demon souls trapped into it from the substance itself, distillating the latter into a purer form. It released a resounding crack as it turned into sickly crystals then shattered, sending a shower of shards over him as he crumpled to the ground. His body trembled, utterly drained, and his ears rang so loud he couldn’t hear any sound of battle from outside.

Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision again--unconsciousness threatening, he knew. Vergil fought it back, stretching one arm outward to drag himself forward, towards the door. Black lines snaked across his skin like so many little cracks, and he flinched at the sight, all too reminiscent of the veins of corruption that had once marked him. _Not now_. He needed to focus, to make sure Nero was all right, that nothing--

Something changed in the air as Vergil pulled himself towards the door, a new power washing through the garage, so strong that it hit him even through the daze and exhaustion. He was slipping out of consciousness, throbbing pain pulsing through his entire body, the edge of his vision narrowing with every second, but Vergil held on. Just a little longer. Just enough to look.

When he lifted his head, he found Nero standing in the middle of a sea of smashed breakers, in full demon form with bright blue wings spread behind him, both hands on the Yamato--his grip perfect, a battle stance ready, the blade wreathed in blue flames. He was beautiful, all inner strength, love and determination--everything Vergil could ever have wished for in a son.

And facing him, black sludge dripping from cracks in his armour, pulsating such raw power it left Vergil breathless, wings buzzing in a terrifyingly familiar sound and eyes made of lifeless flames, was everything Vergil feared of becoming again: a broken shell, the Legendary Dark Knight Sparda, his father.

###

Having to fight his own tools of demon destruction had to rank high on the list of bullshit things that’d happened to him in his life, but Nero had to admit, it was kinda _fun_. He knew the breakers in and out now, could tell Punchline was about to launch by the soft click it emitted, was intimately familiar with the change of pace imposed by fighting within a Ragtime bubble, and even managed to grab a Gerbera and kick off its shockwave system to send _himself_ flying high above the incoming Helter Skelter. Even better, he was slicing through all of these with the Yamato--his first real fight with the katana since it’d been ripped away from him, in this very garage. Safe in the knowledge Vergil was getting Nico out of the van, Nero let himself enjoy the moment fully, whooping as he cut a sizzling Tomboy in two perfect halves, landed on his feet, and spun about to greet an Overture flying for his face with the Yamato, smirking as he struck with the nine-inch-zone Vergil had so insistently taught him to use.

The katana hadn’t stopped singing after Vergil had released it, as it usually did. Nero could feel its will directing his own movements, threading itself into his battle instincts as they worked together. Small blue flames danced along it and with every new slice of the blade, Nero’s chest filled with pride and warmth.

His mirth sputtered as Vergil’s demonic aura, so intensely present at the edge of his mind through the fight, suddenly flickered and resorbed. Shock and worry knocked him briefly out of his game, which earned him three bright burns from a Gerbera’s beams. He sent his demon arm after the breaker, grabbing it midair and smashing it into pieces on the ground, then risked a glance at the van. From his position, he couldn’t see shit, but that fucked up sludge was all over the inside, and that was plenty enough for Nero to act.

He dashed for the van, only for its door to tear itself off its hinges and come flying right at him. Nero leaped up, spreading his wings to bring himself as high as the ceiling and dodge the projectile. By the time he prepared to twist back down, three breakers waited for him, keeping him plenty busy. Vergil’s powers seemed to come up and down in waves, almost as if out of control, but Nero couldn’t seem to get any closer with all the breakers and various garage tools now covered in slime and possessed by it.

“Fuck that!”

His frustration rose, bringing with it a surge of demon power. Nero’s skin hardened as his demon form took over, red ridges and blue shining lines, horns sprouting as his hair lengthened. The Yamato responded to his power, large blue flames flaring around it as a dozen small blue blades shimmered into existence around Nero, more shuriken than swords. They flew out, their aim effortlessly true, and the remaining breakers fell to the ground, pierced through.

Nero took one step towards the van before an intense foreboding tightened his lungs and weighed on his mind. The sensation was strangely familiar, and he realized the fear threading through him half came from the Yamato in his hands. Power unlike almost anything he’d ever felt gathered behind him. Throat tight, Nero slowly turned around, to the source of it.

Sparda stood at the edge of his garage, his own portal shimmering red behind him.

Nero would have recognized the Legendary Dark Knight anywhere. He’d spent his youth bending his head to statues of him, muttering prayers in which he didn’t believe, paying respect to Fortuna’s so-called Saviour while bitterly wondering why he was cruel enough to leave him without parents (and, later, to let demons take Kyrie’s from them, too). The downturned horns and large wings didn’t seem as impressive now, all cracked and filled with sludge, as they had on massive statues of marble. Didn’t change the sheer amount of power just casually washing out of him, though.

It didn’t matter. This fucker could be a god, or the saviour of humanity, or _whatever_ , really--in the end, he was just another demon threatening his family, and Nero would have none of it. He lifted the Yamato, falling into a battle stance.

“Heard you fucked up Dante good, ya big bug dumbass. Care to get a taste of your own medicine?”

Sparda lifted a great broadsword, the edge of its blade crackling with energy. “Ver...gil.”

The fuck did this asshole want with his dad? Nero could barely feel Vergil at the edge of his mind anymore, his aura present but weak, as if exhausted. Probably no help coming from there, then. Not that he needed it. He scowled at Sparda. “In your dreams, gramps.”

He sprinted forward, his mind syncing with the Yamato as Sparda flew to meet him, allowing the katana’s will to twine with his own as much as he could. Sparks flew as the two swords clashed, again and again and again, and with each strike a shockwave of power spread out of Sparda. Nero gritted his teeth against it, forcing himself to hold his ground despite the overwhelming strength of his opponent and how Sparda’s presence and the buzzing of his wings seemed to fill his entire mind. They’d barely fought for an instant, and already Nero could feel the strain on his body.

If he was going to win this, he would have to use everything at his disposal.

Nero jumped back to give himself a breather and brought forth another flurry of shurikens, sending them all flying in at once. He allowed himself a split second of smug satisfaction--it had all come so easily, this time!--then Sparda rose a hand and closed it into a fist, and the summoned blades exploded in a shower of blue sparks. Two long swords appeared above the demon’s shoulders, both a purplish red, and his fiery eyes fixed themselves on Nero. Nero recognized Yamato and Rebellion as they came flying for him, moving so fast his eyes barely registered it.

Something tugged at the back of his mind, a _sense_ of their trajectory, and he let that instinct completely take over. For a split second, he understood exactly how the swords moved through space, flickering in and out of time--and how he himself could trick the very fabric of the world. Nero didn’t question it. He obeyed the knowledge, calling upon this newfound power he barely understood, and ghosted out of the summon swords’ path, reappearing right behind Sparda. The Yamato sang in his hands--it had left a blue trail on the demon’s side, right where Nero had impulsively cut.

Sparda whirled around, and while Nero could feel the demon’s surprise, so, too, could he feel the power gathered in response. They stood so close, he had no time to react as Sparda smashed two palms into his chest, releasing a burst of agonizing red energy that burned through him, fire eating him from the inside. The shockwave sent Nero flying with a gasp, his devil trigger failing as his scorched front struggled to repair itself--then he passed through the portal, into the blistering hot air of Hell.

He landed on hard ground, skittering and rolling several feet back, his fingers clenched around the Yamato with all of his strength. Each minuscule breath was a struggle, a source of pain as much as life, and it was all he could do to push himself to his knees as Sparda stepped through the portal, letting it close behind him. Nero coughed a chunk of blood and wiped it out. The buzzing in his mind wasn’t only from Sparda’s wings anymore and he didn’t understand how the battle turned so brutally on him. He could still fight, though, he wasn’t finished, he could--

Sparda grabbed him by his hair, and a boot stomped down on his will, choking out his words. Nero barely mustered the strength to hold onto the Yamato (he couldn’t lose that, not the Yamato, not here and not the first time Vergil let him wield it again since they’d really connected, father and son). The sword scraped on the stony hellish floor as Sparda dragged him, and Nero fought against the strange hold on his mind, started yanking at the demon claws digging into his scalp. It wasn’t much of a fight, what he put on, but this asshole wasn’t gonna get away without one at all.

It ended when Sparda’s long strides came to a stop and he flung Nero forward. This time, the landing shocked the Yamato out of his hands and it skittered forward. Blood streamed down his nose, and the only reason he knew he still had all his limbs was because of how much they all fucking hurt. Still, he needed his sword back. His legacy. Nero extended a hand for it, grunting in pain with every movement, until he realised something had stopped the Yamato’s movement. His gaze slowly lifted.

It was a massive throne, or something that wished it was. Damn thing was made of a bunch of human-world pieces--chunks of concrete, sewage pipes, half-burnt tapestries and… were those two halves of a McDonald’s “golden arch”? A slightly hysterical bark escaped Nero, but he couldn’t quite smother the dread rising within him. A twisted mockery of a humanoid shape sat on the throne, built out of demon chitin and claws, chunks of marble, and plastic parts all held together by demonic sludge and wrapped around a core of three red balls of energy. When it spoke, its voice resonated through Nero’s mind, cavernous and horrible.

“You have brought me the wrong boy,” it said, and tendrils of sludge slid out of him, wrapping around Nero, leaving his skin prickling and cold as they forcibly lifted him from the ground and held him up.

Behind Nero, Sparda only repeated, “Ver...gil.”

Did… did these two assholes both want his dad? Ah. Fuck. Nero had held the Yamato, hadn’t he? Could Sparda not make the difference? He didn’t sound like he could tell his ass from his mouth, so maybe not. Nero couldn’t help his sharp, painful laugh. He spat on the ground, more blood than anything else despite the fact he could feel his own healing working hard to knit back his insides. That one solid hit on his chest was enough to wreck him completely, but he wasn’t gonna let them know that.

“What’s up, McMundus?” he asked--and it had to be him, right? That power, those three red eyes, that obsession with Vergil… “I ain’t good enough for you?”

Silence followed, giving Nero ample opportunity to wonder how deeply he’d regret those words. Did Mundus even understand the McDonald joke? Shame his humour was lost on these shitheads.

“How… wonderful. You are even more human than he was.”

Nero had exactly zero love for the clear disgust with which Mundus said ‘human’, or the quirky use of past tense. Vergil was still human, damnit, and that was their strength. He scoffed and struggled against the tendrils holding him, calling forth his two blue wings to help him out. When the wings’ hands clawed at the black substance, however, a shock of pain coursed through him, as if he’d plunged them into acid. Nero bit back his startled shout and glared at the misshapen form on the throne. It raised a hand--some rubber tubes twisted around sludge, barely forming three fingers--and the tendrils lifted him higher, digging into his skin and spreading across his neck. They forced his head to tilt back, and he got his first good view of his surroundings.

Part of this Hell reminded him of the Qliphoth’s deepest levels, in the way the walls curved and in the honeycomb patterned all around them. There was even vein-like structures coursing along the cavern’s insides, but they pulsed with black ooze instead of human blood. Two of these seemed to open here, spilling their content into a series of enormous reservoirs. Nero couldn’t see the end of the pools; they extended way beyond his sight, black sludge sloshing inside, some looking as deep as a lake. Even through the throb of pain, he could feel hundreds of demonic auras nearby, most of them weak and broken. Most rested in the pools, but Nero caught echoes of them within Mundus and Sparda, too, almost crushed by their overwhelming presence. Nero was no scholar, but he knew instantly where he was: the Black Basin.

In front of him, Mundus’s three red lights flared, and its body unfurled from the throne, coming to stand as tall as Nero was despite being lifted a few feet off the ground.

“A cursed human breedling, spreading the taint.” Mundus grabbed his chin. Nero’s skin under the sludge-formed fingers burned, but he gathered what spit and blood he could and spat into his face.

“Fuck you,” he said before he lost his opportunity to do so. Who knew when he’d next have his chance?

Mundus tightened his grip, tearing Nero out of the tendrils, and stepped closer to the basins, holding Nero above them. How this fucker even walked with his fucked up body is beyond him, but Nero had a feeling few rules of gravity actually applied to this shape. The voice in his head returned, pounding words within his mind, searing them there.

“Still. The power of human blood… You may need more breaking, but you will do just fine.”

Nero had no time for a retort. Sludge erupted from the basin below, wrapping around his arms and legs and chest, dragging his entire body down into the pool. His panic and anger surged as he splashed in. He wasn’t gonna break for this asshole! There was too much waiting for him back home, he couldn’t give up. He'd fucking fight him every inch of the way. This shit wasn’t over--Dante and Vergil would have his back. He just needed to hold on long enough. Nero yanked a hand out of the tendrils’ burning grasp, only for a second--long enough to flip the bird at Mundus and let him know what he thought of his plan--then he was dragged into the pool.

The last thing he saw was three red balls of energy wrapped in black sludge; the last thing he remembered was pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s be real, this chapter should just be titled McMundus but I didn’t want to spoil it. I love Nero’s continuous disrespect for Sparda and Mundus in this. Also, petition to stop giving Nero the Yamato, especially if he’s gonna be in his garage, because that is a very visibly cursed combo.
> 
> ANYWAY. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED. :D There is *so much* happening in this one.


	37. Homebase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kyrie returns to a destroyed garage, some nauseating odours, and the most horrifying news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to everyone who was hoping we'd hear more from Nero. ^^; That cliffhanger is there to stay.

Tycho was crying when she left him in Helena’s good care, but Kyrie could do nothing about it. She needed to return home, or at least check up on the state of it and evaluate the risk--not to mention, she couldn’t take any of the woman’s lectures anymore. She meant well, and Kyrie was infinitely grateful for the number of times she’d relied on her for help, especially before Vergil’s arrival in Fortuna, but she never missed an opportunity to let Kyrie know what she thought of Nero. _That boy is nothing but trouble, Kyrie. You could do so much better, Kyrie. You’re a good girl, the voice of a saint, why tie yourself to a demon_?

Helena probably had no idea how true the last part was, though most of Fortuna was well aware that Nero had powers by now--one did not simply regrow an arm in a town like Fortuna without every single person knowing about it. Why they couldn’t understand that he had saved them, and that under all his prickly attitude existed the best man she could hope for was beyond her, but she’d long ago decided it was their loss, not hers. So Kyrie smiled and told them he was well worth any trouble, and she ignored the way they shook their heads when she turned her back to them. It didn’t matter--after all, Helena and the other neighbours still helped when they needed it, knowing Nero and Kyrie would always return the favour.

Kyrie hurried back, hiking up her skirts as she stomped down the length of their street, to the small house they’d bought with Credo’s inheritance and turned into their home. The garage door had remained wide open, and her steps slowed as she came in full view of the chaos inside. Pieces of devil breakers were strewn all over the floor, crushed or sliced through, and the van's door had slammed into the shelves across from it, spilling most of their content. She inched her way inside, wary of demons or other dangers lurking, but everything was exceptionally quiet. Uncomfortably so, even.

"Nero?" Her voice stayed half-stuck in her throat, turning her question into a squeak.

No one answered, but no demons materialized either. The stench of burnt plastic and sulfur gripped her nose and made her stomach churn, but if she'd learned anything in the last few weeks, it was to hold down her nausea to some extent. Then a whiff of decay from the van hit her, and she had to stop and forcibly stall her heaving before she lost her breakfast. She allowed herself a minute to recover, placed her sleeve in front of her mouth, and started out again.

Her heart hammering, Kyrie stepped up to the van, peeking at the chaos inside. To be fair, the _Devil May Cry_ van was always a den of disorder--the one place in the house she allowed to reach impossible levels of messy--but the fight had left it in an even worse state than usual. Couch pillows were ripped, the wall closing off the shower had a big hole in it, and parts of the floor and counters looked like acid had eaten through it. It stank, horribly so, and she knew instantly coming had been a mistake. Kyrie whirled around, briefly catching sight of a bloodstain near the back wall as she hurried out and crouched near the steps, breathing hard and fast, her head light and her nausea heavy.

She had no idea how long she spent there, on her knees while her body did its best to revolt, but by the time she dared to stand again, her mouth had turned pasty with an acrid aftertaste, and the whole world felt woozy. She hummed a song under her breath, clinging to the sound of her own voice for steadiness, and started towards the main house.

“Nero?” she called again, and then, louder, “Nico? Are you around?”

“Kyrie?” Nico’s voice was muffled by the walls, but definitely emerged inside the house. Relief washed through Kyrie, the knots along her lungs and stomach loosening. “Chillin’ in the living room!”

The pain threaded through Nico’s voice implied they weren’t only “chilling”, but at least her friend was in a good enough mood to jest. Although, perhaps in Nico’s case that did not mean much. Eager to leave the garage and see for herself, Kyrie hiked her skirts and climbed the two steps to the main house, sweeping down the corridor and into their living room. She stopped short upon seeing Vergil.

He was lying on a long wooden plank, held down by straps usually stored in the garage, and judging by the plank’s angle, Nico must have dragged him all the way to the living room. His training sleeveless vest and loose pants had been turned into ribbons, as if a thousand tiny blades had cut through them, and Kyrie doubted any amount of repair work could salvage either. Only the red amulet he always wore around his neck had survived the massacre. Nico had also thrown a blanket over his hips and despite the situation, Kyrie couldn’t help but flush in embarrassment and relief that he’d been covered upon her arrival. Black lines snaked on Vergil’s skin, crawling over his chest and arms, wrapping around his neck and covering part of his face, like so many veins of magic. He was clearly out of it, hair plastered to his forehead and his expression set into a pained frown. His fingers twitched as she watched, and she jumped at his muffled grunt.

“Dontcha worry, I think that’s normal,” Nico said. “I mean. V used to do it lots while he slept? So maybe it’s just a him-thing.”

“What--” Kyrie’s words scattered as she turned her attention to Nico, sprawled against a wall with a beer in hand and a reddened bandage on her midriff. “Oh! Nico, you’re wounded!”

“S’nothing. Big scratch.” She downed some of her beer and grinned, but the expression felt forced. “I self-inflicted worse about a dozen of times!”

“That is no excuse,” she scolded, gingerly stepping around Vergil to reach Nico. At least repeated self-injuries had taught Nico to do a decent bandage, but it already needed to be changed. Kyrie plucked the beer out of Nico’s hand, rolling her eyes at her friend’s protest, then reached for first aid kit still open and scattered nearby. “You’ll need your hands to help me hold things.”

Blood had never bothered Kyrie, but the stench of it now, compounded with every other overpowering smell in the garage and house… Half the times she asked Nico to hold the bandages were to bring a hand to her mouth as she fought down another bout of nausea. These days, everything from burnt toast to fresh mint was liable to make her sick, but she hadn’t anticipated how terrible it’d become, once blood and decay became prominent smells for the entire house. She was halfway done when it became too much, and with a quick muttered apology to Nico, she dashed for the bathroom and finally relented ownership on her breakfast.

Two things occurred to her in the process. First, she was exceedingly grateful for the short hair, and second, she realized that Nero wasn’t there to offer her a glass of water, as he had almost with almost every bout of morning sickness since this had started. Worry clenched her stomach and she forced it away. With Vergil knocked out and Nico wounded, he must have driven the remaining demons elsewhere. He was strong and capable, and she tried not to think of it, even though anything powerful enough to affect Mr. Vergil like this…

No. She pushed those thoughts out of her mind, cleaned her mouth, downed a glass of water, and returned to Nico’s side. They finished the clean bandage within a few minutes, and Kyrie couldn’t help but worry at Nico’s unholy silence. The girl never shut up, bless her heart, even when she _was_ nervous--so what had gotten into her?

Kyrie pinned the bandage, picked up the scattered first aid kit, and stood up, eager to store in back in the bathroom, and perhaps down one or two new glasses of water to steady her stomach. She’d taken her first step when what Nico was trying to keep inside exploded.

“Ask where he is,” she demanded. “Ya ain’t asking and I don’t know why, but I can’t take it anymore! Just ask.”

Her grip tightened on the kit and she stopped. It was normal for Nero not to be there, and she could do nothing for him, unlike Nico, who had needed first aid. “Is he not… hunting the demons?”

“No!” She threw her arms up, then huffed. “I mean, kinda? But he’s gone, Kyrie. This lil’ bitch got shoved through a hell portal by Sparda and the whole snazzy thing just up and closed behind them! I just--I--he--” She flailed and smacked her head against the wall. “Fucking iBreaker doesn’t even get reception in there!”

“Oh.”

Nero hadn’t simply gone to track down the remaining demons. He was in the demon world. Trapped.

The first aid kit slipped between her fingers and crashed on the ground, an inch from Mr. Vergil’s head. Kyrie barely noticed; the ground seemed to tilt under her, sounds growing faint as the world closed in on her. Then Nico’s arms clasped around her and they were both kneeling on the ground, her friend swearing about her “bitch ass wound hurting like shark week on steroids” while she held Kyrie up.

“Ya all right there, girl? Ain’t fainting bad for the baby?”

A weak laugh escaped Kyrie. “That was… not a choice.” She dug her fingers into Nico’s arms, focusing on the warmth of her skin under her nails, waiting for the worst of her malaise to pass. It didn’t. Her entire body had clenched, wrapping itself tight around the impossible reality of Nero being gone, of all her nightmares becoming an inescapable truth instead of nighttime fears conjured when the bed remained cold from his absence. She struggled to breathe--to even _think_ beyond the enormity of it all, and it felt like Nico’s hand on her back was all that kept her grounded into the present.

“S’okay, Kyrie. We just gotta call homebase. Dante will haul ass and get your man back in like, a finger snap.” She snapped aforementioned fingers and brushed Kyrie’s hair aside. “Nero’s got two old men watchin’ out for him now. Ya ain’t ever losing him to demons.”

One of these old men was on her floor, already down for the count. This wasn’t--it didn’t matter if Nico had a point, not to the panic slowly building inside her chest. When Nero had returned from the Qliphoth and admitted Dante had asked him to stay in the human world, to take care of things here, she had thanked the Saviour for this small blessing. She’d had no idea how she’d have gone on, never knowing how or when or _if_ he’d return. Demons had taken so much from her already. She needed Nero with her.

“C-call. You’re right. Right.”

Just as she had called Nero when it’d started. Kyrie forced a shuddering breath in, then lumbered to her feet, holding Nico for help. Every step made the other girl hiss, but she kept any complaints to herself as they made their way to the landline and Kyrie picked it up. Her entire body shook as she dialled the _Devil May Cry_ ’s number, and she couldn’t think of anything to say over the frantic beating of her heart and the ringing of the phone.

When the edge of her vision darkened again, Kyrie set her back against the wall and let herself slide down. Her fingers hurt from clenching the receiver so hard, and every ring that went unanswered strengthened the lump in her throat until she wasn’t certain how to breathe again. Nico pulled her closer, one hand on her shoulder for reassurance as the call went on.

By the sixth ring, Kyrie burst out crying, ugly sobs tearing out of her, wracking her body on their way out. She needed help, needed Dante’s frank and calm voice to answer her, steady her, promise her it’d be all right. Rationally, she knew he was probably out on a hunt or sleeping too hard to hear her, yet it felt like with every new ring of the phone, her world crumbled a little more.

Then the twelfth ring cut short, and Dante’s singsong voice travelled across the ocean to curl itself gently around her heart.

“ _Devil May Cry?_ ”

Her sob turned into a sharp wail before she could quite help herself, and it took all of Kyrie’s self-control to actually manage two words. “Mr. Dante!”

###

Life was full of patterns, but Dante wished “taking a shit while the phone rang on and on, only to finally go down to answer and have a woman burst into tears at the other end of the line” wasn’t one of them. It’d happen often enough that he’d gotten used to it, so he leaned back into his chair, kicked his feet up on his desk, and wondered what it would be this time. Hopefully not a cat stuck in a tree--that one had gotten old through the years, especially when the little devils decided to scratch the fuck out of his arms. Maybe he’d try to pass this one on to Lady, pretend he was still wounded or--

“Mr. Dante!”

Fear jolted through him as he recognized Kyrie’s voice, even roughened by tears. His feet slammed back to the ground and he leaned forward, grabbing his phone up. When he spoke, however, his tone had all the casual assurance he always displayed. “What’s wrong, little lady?”

And there was _a lot_ wrong. At first, Kyrie’s story came out in either panicked strings of quickly spoken words or haltingly slow chunks between gut-wrenching sobs, but her voice steadied and, helped by the occasional contribution from Nico somewhere nearby, she managed to tell the whole of it. By the end, Dante couldn’t tell which part of it exactly he hated the most. Probably the bit where Kyrie was still crying, and Nico didn’t seem able to do anything about it, which left no one but him--an entirely, completely inadequate choice for the task.

“Ya know, I didn’t think I’d be vacationing in the demon world again so soon,” he said, and Kyrie’s breath caught on the other side, “but I can’t let my punk-ass nephew get lost in there.”

“Y-You’ll go?” she asked.

He had no idea how, but he’d had more than enough of this bullshit. Time was up. “Hell yeah. Me and Vergil, we know that neighbourhood. Not too pleasant, but nothing we can’t handle. Think you can house me for a few days again, Kyrie?”

“O-of course.”

Poor girl. She sounded in a complete daze. Couldn’t entirely blame her--he had a feeling once all of this bullshit actually settled in his brain, he’d want to scream, down a lot of scotch, and then go demon-ass-kicking.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll be on the first flight I can catch. And Kyrie?” Dante hesitated. He outta tell _her_ something, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around proper words. Reassurances and him didn’t agree. “If Vergil comes to before I’m here, tell him I’m on my way before anything else. Make that the first news he hears, before I wind up with two knuckleheads to rescue.”

“Understood.”

Her voice was a whisper, her usual kind chirpiness gone from it. Dante’s chest tightened and he closed his eyes briefly. They’d fix this. No one was breaking his happy little family, not this time.

“See ya,” he added, and hung up the phone.

###

“What do you mean, the next flight isn’t until five in the morning?” This was bullshit. Dante leaned forward, palm flat on the customer service counter. “That’s not gonna work. I need to be on one as soon as possible.”

The lady behind the counter rolled her eyes, ignoring the soft whine in his voice. Her smile never budged and her tone remained chipper as he replied. “I’m afraid we cannot change schedules for every customer, sir. Shall I book a ticket for you on this flight, or…?”

Dante sighed. Planes sucked! But he’d bet they totally did have special tricks and she was just keeping them for the important people. All he needed was to make himself important, then, and pull out the Dante charms. He relaxed his shoulders and leaned on the counter, offering the girl his best smiles.

“All right, sorry, I get it. Flight plans are outside of your control,” he said, his voice mellowing. “This is an emergency. It’s my nephew, he’s in a dire condition, you see, and I just--I don’t have any other family left. If I don’t get there in time…”

“Sir, I’m sorry for your nephew, but there is nothing I can do.”

“I just want to say goodbye.” Okay, now he was well into lying territory, but Nero did need him to haul ass. He reached out, stopping just short of her hand. “Surely a bright young mind like you--” He checked her name tag. “--Eleonor, can find a way to get me there faster?”

“Sir--”

Eleonor never finished her reply. A heavy hand landed on Dante’s shoulder, and when he glanced, he found himself looking at a burly security officer. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to come with me.”

Dante almost burst out laughing. The bulldog-cheeks on the officer looked right out of a cartoon, but that might not quite have tipped Dante off without the hint of amusement threaded through this “security”’s voice. He smirked and straightened. “Guess I got no choice, huh?” He offered the customer lady service a last wave and let himself be led away. The moment they were out of earshot, however, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

“That’s gotta be the ugliest disguise you ever wore,” he said.

“And I can’t wait to be out of it, so keep walking, hot stuff,” Trish replied. “I can’t believe you were flirting with customer service! You should know better.”

Dante pouted. “That wasn’t flirting, I was just--”

“Making her uncomfortable.”

“All right, all right!” She was kinda right, but he’d needed that damn flight! “Guilty as charged. How did you even know where to find me?”

Trish burst out laughing. She pulled Dante into a side corridor marked as off limits and dropped her disguise. “Are you kidding me? Once we found the ‘be back soon’ note, we figured something must have happened in Fortuna. Nero isn’t answering his Devil Breaker, the van’s line was dead, so we called Kyrie. You’re not gonna leave us behind so easily, Dante.”

“We can’t afford three plane tickets,” he muttered. They couldn’t afford one, technically, but when had that ever stopped him? The truth was that he hadn’t wanted to involve them if they didn’t need to. “Besides, it’s a family matter.”

“Get over yourself. We’re all family now.” She pushed an emergency exit door and walked out into the planes’ parking area, striding towards with confidence. “And who needs to pay for plane tickets when Lady can just call a guy?”

She gestured at a side hangar, out of which a small plane was slowly wheeling out. Lady stood in front of it, Kalina-Ann on her back and a dangerous smirk on her lips. Dante couldn’t help the warmth pooling in his chest. All family, huh?

“Aw man, really?” he whined, throwing his arm around Trish’s shoulders. “That shit’s gonna cost me more in debts than a plane ticket and you know it.”

Trish was still laughing by the time Lady joined them and confirmed his doubts. “Can’t wait to send _that_ invoice to Mr. Accountant. Hop your ass in, Dante.”

She pointed over her shoulder with a thumb. Dante threw his second arm over her shoulder, pulling her close on the other side of him. His stomach had been a bunch of shitty knots from the moment he’d hung up on Kyrie, yet he felt them unwinding now. It was exactly as he’d told Vergil: just one more instance of the bullshit that’d plagued his life. But this time, he’d make it through with his whole family intact, Lady and Trish included. Together, they were unstoppable.

“Babes, we’re about to spend hours together on a tiny ass dingy plane,” he said. “I sure hope ya got pizza in there!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante be nice to customer service, c'mon. XD


	38. Family Fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil wakes up to the bad news, and Dante arrives in Fortuna, only to be put on babysitting duty.

_Power._

_He needed more power._

_Cracks lined his body, splintering it, wearing down his resistance. He couldn’t give in, not to Mundus. The pain burned through him, pure agony, scorching everything else away._

_If only he had… more… power._

Vergil startled awake, and the pain from the nightmare stayed with him, deep within every bone of his body. He stifled a grunt, his vision edged in black from the pain, but seconds trickled and it dulled into a low, background throb. Sweat drenched his body and the bed under, his breaths had turned into hard pants, and his heart squeezed with each of them. It had felt so real, so immediate…

“Mr. Vergil!”

Kyrie’s voice barely made it through the ringing in his ears. She leaned over him, short hair framing a grim face marked by exhaustion. Bags clung to her eyes and her cheeks had lost their usual colour, and he doubted the pregnancy was to blame. Vergil blinked away the remnant of the fog clinging to his mind, trying to bring himself fully back to the present. When he’d blacked out… He recalled waves of power washing out of Nero, distinctly his son’s yet a perfect echo of the Yamato’s presence. They’d felt like a blanket over his heart, permission to rest, and his strength had left him.

“Kyrie… Where’s…” He trailed off and tried to push himself up. He was in his room, alone with Kyrie. Vergil glanced down. He’d nothing left on him but his amulet and dark lines now clung to his chest as if the black sludge had sunk into his skin. He touched the new motif and a strange energy crackled under his fingers. “Oh.”

“How are you feeling, Mr. Vergil?” Kyrie asked.

“Fine.”

The obvious lie drew a thin smile out of Kyrie. She sat with her hands on her lap and although her tone remained calm, tension turned her posture rigid. “You had more such lines a few hours ago. They seem to be resorbing. Do they hurt?”

“No. It’s more like… static.”

“That is good news.” She played with a loose thread of her skirt, brown eyes looking everywhere but directly at him. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Let me get you a glass of water.”

Kyrie rose from her seat, her cheeks flushed. As soon as she stepped away, Vergil snatched her wrist and held her tight. His entire body screamed at the movement, demanding for him to let go and fall back and rest, but he fought the dizziness and met Kyrie’s wide eyes.

“How long have I been out?” The sun shone outside and judging by the slant of the light, it had to be late in the morning. His mind pounded, convinced that he’d been gone too long, that whatever had unfolded without him could never be fixed. He almost wished he’d woken up to chaos instead of his too-quiet room. “How is Nicoletta? Tell me what I missed.”

Kyrie sighed and slipped her wrist out of his grasp. “Mr. Dante is on his way,” she said, “so you must remain seated, no matter what I say.”

It wasn’t a request, it was an order. Vergil frowned, uncertain he wanted to obey. If Dante was coming…

“Kyrie…”

She swallowed hard and her fingers drifted to her belly. When she spoke again, it was with the forced steadiness he’d heard from her through the iBreaker. “Nico had a nasty wound but is recovering well. She is helping me clean the garage. But… according to her, the Savi--I mean, Sparda… Sparda pushed Nero through a portal to Hell as they fought, followed him, then snapped it close behind them.”

White noise filled Vergil’s ears. The entire world pressed down on him, crushing his lungs and brain and heart. This couldn’t be happening. He’d heard wrong, it wasn’t true--except he’d always known life would pull the rug from under his feet, that his happiness couldn’t last. _Nero_. Nero was gone. The darkness at the edge of his vision returned, encroaching until he saw nothing, no matter how much he blinked. _Gone_. How could he--this wasn’t--he’d never… His entire body shook, but cool hands grasped his, and a soft voice pierced through the panicked ringing.

“Mr. Vergil, please stay with me!” The hands squeezed, grounding him, and his sight edged back. Kyrie held him tight. “Your brother is on the way. He will be here soon. He promised he’d--that he could--”

A strangled sob cut off Kyrie and tears sprung in her eyes. Somehow, Kyrie’s panic cut through his, steadying the whirlwind of his thought. He shifted his hands to return her grip and squeezed back. His heart still hammered in his chest, each beat shattering himself a little more, but he held on.

“We’ll get him back,” he said, and his voice devoid of doubts despite the horror roiling inside.

He couldn’t accept this reality, would never allow the world to inflict on his son a fraction of what he’d lived through. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d been stronger, if the terrible black sludge hadn’t drained him so.It did not matter what he needed to do, nor how much he’d have to strain his pained body: he would find Nero and bring him home. It was his responsibility, _his_ _son._

“I promise, Kyrie. No one is taking Nero away from us.”

He gripped the sheets covering him and threw them away, swinging his legs out of the bed and setting his feet on the ground. His mind belatedly registered that he’d been completely naked under there when Kyrie yelped and covered her eyes, then his body reminded him it was nowhere near ready to stay upright by collapsing under him. He hit the ground as a jolt of pain coursed through him, grunting on impact, and a second later the sheets landed on top of him, thrown there by Kyrie.

“Mr. Vergil!” she exclaimed, half-worried, half-scolding.

He remained still, frozen in embarrassment. He hadn’t thought--how could he be… _someone_ would’ve had to remove his underwear, and--what was he supposed to say or do _now_ , in quite possibly the most embarrassing position he’d found himself through his entire life? He sighed and leaned his forehead against the cold floor.

“I suppose that was ill-advised.”

A first squeaky giggle escaped Kyrie, quickly followed by a second, only for a full-on laughing fit to completely take over. Something frank and pure to the sound wormed its way into Vergil, loosening the knots of tension until a chuckle of his own crossed his lips and evolved into its own, full-blown laughter. He had no idea what was happening to him. He hurt all over, his worst fears were quickly lining up to become reality, and yet here he was, sprawled naked on the floor and half-covered by a thin sheet his daughter-in-law had quickly thrown over him, laughing like there was no tomorrow.

Maybe that was it. It felt like there’d be no tomorrow, and he didn’t even have it in him to stand up, so he might as well laugh it up. But that had never been in his nature. He did not laugh in the face of despair as Dante might.

The mirth subsided, leaving him dizzy and breathless, still under the blanket. Kyrie released a wheezing sigh, obviously still fighting to get herself under control.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vergil. I shouldn’t laugh, I--” She stopped, stifling another giggle as he pulled the sheet off his head. “I just--I think I needed that.”

The next giggle sounded half like a sob, and she wiped the corner of her eyes with a sad smile, her expression a stab in his stomach. He held the sheet tight around his waist as he sat on the floor, dragging himself to rest his back around the bed. His fever had begun climbing up again and he could feel the world drawing back, leaving him into an exhausted fog.

“You may laugh… as long as it never leaves this room.” If Dante or Nicoletta got wind of this…

“You have my word.” Kyrie sniffed and bowed to him. “You should rest. I can wake you once Dante arrives.”

He had no idea if he could sleep. Although the fall and subsequent laughter had drained him of any energy and every thought felt like it moved through molasses, Vergil doubted he’d ever find enough peace to rest, knowing Nero was trapped in Hell and had last been seen fighting Sparda. They needed to depart as soon as possible, to just _go_. But he couldn’t even stand for a few seconds, let alone fight… Vergil gritted his teeth, frustrated. He should’ve been healing faster, damnit.

“If I must,” he said. He pushed himself up, still holding the sheets to make absolutely sure they wouldn't fall, and heaved himself back into the bed.

"You can't save Nero if you can't walk," Kyrie pointed out, "so I trust you'll do your utmost to fulfill your promise."

Kyrie had a way to make kindness sound like a threat, and he couldn't help but smile. In a now-distant future, she'd use this against her coming child to make them stay in line. And in that future, Nero would be there to witness and love it. He had to be. Vergil would make sure of it.

"Kyrie… would you do one thing for me before you leave?"

"Of course,” she said. “Say the word, Mr. Vergil.”

"Music… soothes me. If I could hear your voice…"

"Oh."

Her cheeks reddened and she sat by the bed. Vergil stared at her. He'd meant for her to put one of her recordings, but once the first notes rose, he didn't have the heart to stop her. Her voice was so much more beautiful like this, and a new thread of sorrow slid into it, breathing new life into Sparda's words about humanity. The familiar notes wrapped around his heart like two solid arms holding him close. The melody made him feel safe, and although he could not remember it with her voice, he knew their mother had sung it to them as children. It fascinated him, that the songs of his childhood--which Sparda had written centuries ago, long before he'd ever met Eva--had somehow wormed their way back to him. He found himself idly wishing his mother still lived, that she could have met Kyrie and sang with her, or sit with Nero and tell him what kind of babies he and Dante had been. No one alive had that knowledge--not unless Sparda was truly in there, under the corrupted shell Vergil had glimpsed--and the loss struck him anew. He was still mourning it to the gentle sound of Kyrie's voice when exhaustion caught up to him.

###

Dante's mind was jelly when he stepped into Kyrie's lovely house. He'd snoozed for all the plane ride (what part the girls didn’t spend berating him for his little flirt, anyway), but all his muscles were stiff from the cramped space and periods of forced immobility always fucked with his brain. If _he_ decided to do nothing for three days, it was a well-deserved vacation (or depression, but that truth stayed unsaid). When life imposed this shit on him, it turned him restless and moody. Lady was the same, which meant they'd spent the last hour snapping at each other over nothing and everything, right until Trish had threatened to send them both home on a similarly painful trip if they didn't behave. She wouldn't, and it wasn't possible, but neither of them dared risk her wrath. They kept their peace until they reached Nero's home.

The mood inside had completely flipped since his last visit. Without Nero around, the cozy little house had turned into a web of tense silence and dragging footsteps. No kids rushed to greet Dante upon arrival and not a single floorboard creaked above head. He wouldn't be playfully brawling with his twin today. Instead, only Kyrie glided through the house. She looked tired, exhaustion weighing her shoulders and marring her usual smile. It didn't fit her, the whole ragged and desperate look, and protectiveness surged through Dante, curling up within. Now that he'd enjoyed her company, he hated the hints of sadness in the curl of her lips. Dante forced his usual grin on and spread his arms, gesturing at his two companions.

"The cavalry's here, little lady! And I brought some extra hands."

Lady scoffed and slapped his arm away. "Like we didn't force ourselves on you. Need help cleaning, Kyrie?"

"N-no, I mean… Thank you, but no. I…" She trailed off and her gaze passed between all three, as if overwhelmed by their presence. "I don't have enough beds…"

"Don't worry. We're crashing Nico's hole in the wall." Lady set her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. "She said the van was a mess. Maybe I can help with the garage?"

"Oh!" Kyrie's whole face lit up. "That would be wonderful. She's there right now. I'm sorry, I should've thought--"

"Kyrie," Trish interrupted, "how long have you been in here, cooped up and worrying?"

"Hum…" She looked at her feet and pulled at the edge of her sleeves, lips pinched.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You're coming with me." Trish grinned and pushed past Dante, gripping Kyrie's wrist and pulling her back towards the entrance. "We're going shopping! Anything you want, I'm paying--no protests!"

Kyrie had already begun said protests, but they petered out as Trish buried each of them and insisted she needed to take a breather, and worrying at home did nothing for Nero. Somewhere in the middle of that, she pointed out two of her orphans would be coming home from school soon and would need someone, and since Lady had conveniently vanished to the garage already, the task befell Dante--or, in Trish's words, "he's pretty useless in the kitchens but he can call up pizza just fine". That all sounded like a terrible plan, but he didn't want to ruin Kyrie's forced relaxation time, so he grinned and promised it'd all be good.

Dante counted to five once the door closed behind them, just in case Kyrie came back running to share one last instruction with him. Once he was certain they’d left for good, he set his guitar case by the wall, dropped his pack, and took the stairs three at a time. The moment he’d stepped inside, he’d reflexively quested for Vergil’s characteristic aura, and he’d hated the muted feel of it, like blue embers struggling to reignite.

He found Vergil sleeping in his bed with a toddler curled by his arm. Right. Kyrie had mentioned the kid had insisted on watching over “Grandpa Vergil” only to fall asleep on the bed. She hadn’t warned him about how adorable the little bud would look there, and Dante needed a moment to absorb the big wave of family love it gave him. Then his gaze latched on the black splatter across Vergil’s chest and worry washed away the bubbling warmth. He strode in and plopped his ass into the desk chair.

His brother’s eyes opened immediately. Not asleep, then.

“Dante.” His voice was firm. Good sign, that.

“The one and only,” Dante said. “Ya feelin’ all right?”

“Exceedingly overcrowded.” Vergil waved the fingers on his right arm, buried under Tycho’s body, and the hint of a smile touched his lips despite his protest. “I seem to experience difficulties healing properly. Did coming into contact with the basin’s sludge ever have this impact on you?”

“Nope. The thing just pulls on my devil trigger, like it wants me to be full demon all the damn time. S’little weird to have it mess with my brain and impulses like that, but otherwise it was fine.” Dante hooked his foot under the bed and pulled, wheeling the chair even closer, and pointed at the splatter. “Never left any marks on me, either. That doesn’t look like what Kyrie described over the phone.”

“She told me they were resorbing.” He ran his left hand’s finger over the black shape, and for a moment Dante thought the black mark glowed a yellowish green. “It _is_ smaller than the first time I woke, and it’s no longer brimming with energy. Hm.”

Dante squinted and stared at Vergil, confused by his outward calm. Anything even vaguely related to this sludge or Mundus used to freak him out big time, even if he’d hidden it at first. Now he acted like this bullshit was happening to a stranger instead of his own body! Either he’d grown twice as good at faking it, or something else was going on.

“You sure you’re all right?”

Vergil pressed his lips together and kept his eyes on the ceiling, avoiding Dante’s gaze. His chest heaved with a few slow motion as he deepened his breathes--the little trickster was definitely trying to keep himself calm and steady and let nothing show. Dante smirked. Shit wouldn’t work on him.

“C’mon, ya don’t have to hold it together if it’s just me,” he said.

“I do.” Vergil turned his head and resolve glinted in his icy blue eyes. “But you misunderstand. It’s not a matter of pride. Every inch of me--soul, body, mind--are screaming that I should get up and crawl my way to Hell, that a second lost in bed is one more during which Nero could die, that I am _failing_ him.” His voice broke and his fingers clenched, the whole arm tensing under Tycho. “But I cannot--that path leads to mistakes. Nero taught me that, you know? That I needed to be wary of my own thoughts and the way they spun until I saw only one path, one tunnel…”

Dante hadn’t been ready for the sudden flip into wavery-voice fondness. His throat tightened as Vergil trailed off, and he clenched his hands, fighting an impossible desire to ruffle Nero’s hair and tell the kid just how amazing he was. Every time he looked away, these two got a step closer and Nero called upon some secret superpower and shoved Vergil’s issues right into his face. Apparently fucking miracles happened every day with him around--as if Dante needed another reason to tear Hell apart until they found him.

Dante slung his easy grin at Vergil, burying his own worries deep under it. “Your kid’s got more brain than both of us combined. We gonna have to step up.”

A sharp chuckle escaped Vergil. “As if we could ever catch up.”

Oh boy, oh man. Had Vergil just casually admitted defeat about something? While being so utterly soft about it? Dante snorted. “What’s that I hear? My brother, _conceding_? This can’t be real! Must’ve stepped in some shitty mirror dimension or something, because there’s no way--”

“Shut up, Dante!” Vergil snapped, but for all the snippy cold tone, he couldn’t quite bury his smile. He pushed himself up on one elbow and did his best impression of his usual glare. “You’re lucky my arm is currently occupied.”

“Like that stops your damn swords,” Dante pointed out. He made his chair spin with a grin, then stopped himself to face Vergil again. “You just grew old and mushy, admit it!”

Vergil flopped back down on the bed with a sigh. “Maybe I have, Dante. Maybe…” Whatever thoughts floated in his mind went unsaid. Seconds trickled by in silence, and when Vergil broke it, he picked up the conversation where they’d interrupted it. “I’m holding myself together for his sake. I will not have him pay for my failings again, do you understand? I _must_ stay calm.”

“I gotcha.” Dante leaned back into the chair. Time to break the news Vergil wouldn’t like. “Lady and Trish came with me. We’re going after Nero.”

“I’m coming, Dante.”

Dante grimaced. He’d known Vergil would say that and he’d love to have his brother by his side, but what if he froze up, as he had by the demon train when he’d seen a demon resembling Nightmare? What if he refused to fight Sparda to kill, to accept their father might be truly gone because he’d made it back from Nelo Angelo? What if Mundus was really there, waiting for them? Vergil shouldn’t have to go through all that.

“We can handle it, Vergil. You’ve got nothing to prove. You just said it yourself--Nero wouldn’t want you rushing in.”

“Dante…”

To his surprise, Vergil fell silent. He didn’t tell Dante off or pretend he was absolutely fine and ready to fight, that none of this worried him. He closed his eyes and actually thought on Dante’s damn words, and if that wasn’t a miracle all on its own, Dante didn’t know what was. Where was his arrogant brother gone? Seconds crawled by, heavy with silence, until pale blue eyes sought Dante’s own.

“This isn’t about me.” Thin fingers landed on the amulet at his neck. “You told me once that we were meant to stand together. I will not leave you to face this threat alone, nor will I stay back while Nero is in danger. I cannot. But I am not rushing in. I walk into this knowing you will have my back.”

Dante held back his huff and fought the quiet pride rising in him. He didn't recognize Vergil, had grown so used to the prideful, reckless brother that this thoughtful one stunned him. He still wasn’t all that keen on the idea, but at least Vergil didn’t sound like he just wanted to prove he could beat Mundus or whoever else. Besides, there’d be no stopping Vergil from following if he wanted to. And, damn, Sparda had been no small fry. Dante could really use the help.

“Right. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready, then. All of us.”

“Tomorrow,” Vergil promised. “I’ll be ready tomorrow.”

Dante had a shitton of doubts about that one, but before he could reply, the front door opened with a plaintive creak. Julio let out a massive exclamation at the sight of Dante’s guitar case, then it thunked to the ground. Boy was probably trying to get the latches open, so Dante hopped to his feet.

“Can’t let the kids play with Nevan and King C. without supervision. Let me free your arm and leave you to your rest.” He gently plucked Tycho off from Vergil’s arm and, upon receiving half-asleep protest, Dante patted the toddler’s back awkwardly and added. “C’mon, little buddy. Uncle Dante’s in charge now.”

Not that he wanted to. Children were fragile little things and he’d rather only ever be responsible of pulling funny faces at them. No such luck now, though. He did his best to ignore Vergil’s smile as Tycho threw his tiny little arms around Dante’s neck and mumbled something in the crook of his neck.

“I hope Nico immortalizes this on film,” Vergil said as Dante left the room, his tone so carefully balanced that Dante couldn’t tell whether his brother had gone mushy again or was mocking him. Probably both. Either way, Dante loved it and all the changes it underscored. It was hard to believe that half a year ago, Vergil was still dead to the world.

Not really a thought Dante wanted to linger on. He hurried down the last few steps and plastered the usual grin as he spotted the two other kids. Julio was straddling his guitar case and fiddling with the side clips while Amelia leaned on the nearby wall, her lips a thin line of disapproval.

"Hey, it's little Julio! Tryna get a peek at Dante's coolest guitar ever?"

Julio gasped and looked up, freezing as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar--not that Dante ever froze for that sort of shit. Amelia scoffed and glared at her foster brother.

"I told you not to touch it."

The reproach snapped Julio out of his daze and he scrambled off the case. "It fell on its own!"

"Right, and you just climbed on it for fun. No one believes your lies, Julio!"

"They're not lies!" Julio's small hands scrunched into fists. "You're the liar!"

He sprung on Amelia, reaching for her hair and face, but she caught his wrists before he could punch or rake fingers through. Their bodies still collided and hit the wall, and Dante stared in shock at the sudden fight. What the hell? Julio had always been rowdy but never violent, and Amelia was overprotective of the two youngest kids, not gratuitously mean. She kicked at Julio's shins and he yelped.

"You told the teacher you weren't crying," she said, cold anger in her voice. "You told her nothing had happened! That everything was fine!"

Oh. So that's what was going on. Of course it was. Dante set Tycho down, ignoring his sheepish protest. He had to stop these two.

"I didn't wanna talk about it!" Julio retorted, and he opened his mouth wide for a tactic Dante immediately recognized as one Vergil had used on him countless times: he was about to bite.

Dante grabbed his shirt and lifted him off Amelia before he chomped down on her arm, then placed a placating hand near her chest to keep her by the wall. "Woah, hey! If I don't get to brawl with my bro in this house, neither do you. Where's the sibling love gone?"

Julio kicked midair and tried to twist away and grab at his arm. He managed to land a kick on Dante, but it'd take loads more than that to free himself. Amelia crossed her arms and hid her tears behind a haughty sniff.

"It won't matter when they split us again," she stated.

"No one's getting split." Dante lowered Julio so his feet would touch the ground but he didn't release him. These kids were traumatized, and he didn't know shit about 'em beyond what he'd learned in his five days trip, but he did know something about their pain. Maybe… Maybe he could do something about it. "Shit like what happened to Nero… I got a lot of experience with it. It's not a fun story and I don't like talking about it, but I'll tell y'all if you stop fighting. Sounds good?"

Julio froze right there and then, lifting bright brown eyes on Dante as if he’d just been offered the world. Amelia muttered a stiff “I suppose” then strode past him to pick up Tycho’s hand and lead the boy towards the living room. Dante had to stomp down on his smirk; she reminded him of Vergil way too much. He followed her, Julio almost skipping behind him despite his angry tears not five seconds ago, and once Dante sat on the loveseat, they all piled up on and around him--Tycho on his lap, and one kid on each side. Julio leaned hard against him while Amelia made a point of looking elsewhere. They all clearly waited for him to start, and now he regretted ever venturing the idea.

“Right. Well… Vergil and I, we lost our parents pretty young, too. About your age, Amelia, I think? But I’m no good with maths and age. Anyway.” Dante sank deeper into the couch. Julio stared at him with wide eyes and Amelia had turned in his direction, her frown softening. Tycho hadn’t moved, but his grip on Dante’s hand tightened. “We split, when it happened. We split, and we fought when we met again. Just kept fighting, over and over, and let me tell you… that was no good. S’part of why Vergil couldn’t be there for Nero, even. But it always felt like the only way for both of us, until Nero stepped in and showed us another path.”

Damn, but it was easy to forget how much they owed this kid. This was all a flattened version of the truth, but Dante’s voice had pitched with hurt and he didn’t think he could give them more. He sighed. Hopefully he wasn’t traumatizing these kids or some shit.

“What I’m sayin’ is, ya gotta stick with your brothers and sisters. Don’t get split, don’t fight. Y’all need one another. You might think you don’t, but you do. Fight and it’ll leave you scarred.” He tightened his left hand, the one Vergil had pierced with the Yamato when he’d fell into the demon world.

“Mr. Dante…” Amelia’s voice had lost its cold sheen, and Dante didn’t think he could take all the hopes and fears in her eyes. What was it with children and being all so intense? “Y-you think we’ll see Nero again? Kyrie said that’s why you were coming. I don’t wanna lose someone else.”

Oh, good, an easy question! Dante grinned in relief.

“C’mere.” He extended an arm so she could get close like her brothers if she wanted to. She slunk into the embrace without hesitation. “I _know_ you’ll see Nero again.” He squeezed them close, acting like neither Julio nor Amelia were soaking his dirty t-shirt with tears. “Nero’s a tough cookie, and I’ve been to the demon world and back. I’m a legendary demon hunter, remember? We’ll have him here in no time.”

“Promise?” Tycho asked.

“I promise--on my honour and my love for pizza!”

This earned him a cheer from all three kids, and Dante’s smile widened at their candid enthusiasm for his pizza-promise. He even got a second cheer when he suggested they should order said pizza for everyone, then Tycho climbed down his lap and ran for the menu. Dante didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d already decided what he wanted. Instead, he placed a hand on Amelia’s and Julio’s shoulders and looked at them both in turn.

“No more fighting, right?”

For a moment, they both looked like they wanted to argue, but instead they stared at the ground and agreed. Dante had no idea how long it’d hold up, but he was damn proud of himself for getting them to stop. As he pushed himself off the couch, his gaze wandered upward, towards the brother he’d fought over and over through the decades, tearing himself open as surely as Vergil.

Nero had brought them together, and Dante would die three times over before he let the kid down. They were going to the demon world, and they weren’t coming back without him.


	39. Imprint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets ready for their demon world rescue mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a more quiet chapter, action and feel wise. Take the breather while you can. ;)

When he next woke up, all traces of the black splatter on Vergil’s chest had vanished. It must have been stalling his healing, too, as he had no trouble getting to his feet and moving around his room. The dizziness was gone, and although the strain remained in his muscles, it didn’t hurt anymore. He wouldn’t rest a second longer; it wasn’t necessary, and who knew what Nero endured in the meantime?

Voices drifted from below as he dug through his drawers for the outfit he had first met Nero in, both on top of the Qliphoth then again months later, once they had returned from Hell. He listened to the low rhythm of discussion and a soft smile curved his lips as he realized Kyrie was explaining the baby’s echography pictures to the others. Vergil threw on his coat and the reassuring weight grounded him, soothing his nerves. Kyrie had moved from the echo to showing off the multiple baby onesies that had already been acquired--some with adorable animal patterns or the one that had a huge bow, like a gift. Nico loudly insisted Kyrie showed them hers, which had a loading bar and “Diaper Loading” written on it. Vergil slipped both of his fingerless gloves, rolling his eyes as Dante suggested they found one with strawberry sundaes, then he reached for the Yamato, always on top of his dresser.

His fingers closed on empty space.

Vergil’s heart clenched and he stared at his hand, frozen where he stood. Of course the Yamato wasn’t at its regular spot. They had been training with it when Kyrie had called, had used it to slice through the veil and transport themselves to the garage. Nero had kept it, fought the devil breakers with it while Vergil rushed to Nico’s aid. He’d held it, bright blue flames dancing along its edge, as he stood his ground against Sparda.

And now it was gone.

Vergil’s hand flopped by his side and he inhaled deeply. They’d have brought it back here, if it’d been left in the garage, he was certain of it. At least it meant Nero hadn’t been pushed into the demon world unharmed, but… Why wasn’t he back? Was he unable to create a portal on his own, or had something else stopped him? He’d been fighting Sparda, who’d had enough of an upper hand to push him through. So much could’ve gone wrong--and even more could do so the longer Vergil stayed immobile and pondered dreadful potential outcomes. They needed to go.

Vergil ran his hands through his hair, pushing the strands back and grounding himself in the familiar sensation. The time had come. He strode out of his room, coat snapping behind him as he hurried down the steps and into the living room.

Five sets of eyes snapped to him and he straightened under their pressure, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. His left hand fluttered where the Yamato's grip would normally wait for it and the absence burned his heart.

"I've recovered enough to proceed," he said.

"Say that again when you don't forget your precious inheritance," Lady remarked. "I know you don't have much of it, but you're gonna need your brain as much as your body, Mr. Accountant."

In two sentences, Lady had managed to remind him exactly why emails had become the only form of communication they endured. He stiffened and glared at her.

"I did not forget." He didn't explain--she didn't deserve for him to elaborate. Instead, he turned towards Nico, who’d flopped into the couch by Kyrie’s side, her bare midriff now wrapped in a bandage. "Nero keeps Red Queen in the van, does he not? Did it survive the attack?"

“Huh, yeah.” She pushed herself up. “Want me to give her a lil’ check-up and make sure everything’s as it should be, V-man?”

“It would be greatly appreciated.”

Nico clapped her hands and jumped up, not even wincing at the sudden movement. Her energy reassured him. When he’d first spotted her in the van, a deep slash across her belly, he’d feared the extent of damage she may have suffered. Vergil had never been skilled at evaluating the seriousness of human injuries--his own healed far too quickly for most to matter.

“Hell yeah! You’ll see, she’ll purr for you in no time,” Nico promised.

Vergil pressed his lips together. He did not care for Red Queen’s purring, but he’d need a weapon in the Yamato’s absence and it seemed only fitting to bring Nero his favourite sword back. He’d want it, if he was in any shape to fight.

“Woah, woah, woah! Time out, time out!” Dante spread his arms out, palms outward. “Burning motor sword isn’t your style, Vergil, so what’s going on? Where’s the Yamato?”

“Unless I am mistaken, it is with Nero. In the demon world.” He turned to Nico to confirm, and although he’d known the truth the moment he’d realized the katana hadn’t been returned to its usual spot in his room, his throat tightened at her nod. “We were out training when this happened. He kept it during the battle, upon our return.”

“Shit. That’s bad.”

Vergil froze. Had Dante not known this? Was he not up to date on the situation? And if not… “Dante. What _was_ your plan to get to the demon world?”

His twin smacked his lips and threw his hands behind his head, leaning back into the couch between Lady and Trish (who sat on the back of it, above him) with a sheepish grin. He didn’t need to answer for Vergil to understand. The Yamato had been the plan. If Dante had spoken confidently of walking into Hell to save Nero, it was because he expected that first step to be easy, not because he and his partners had devised another plan. Vergil stared at them, still standing in the corridor’s archway, his hands tingling as his heart hammered against his chest.

“No plan, then,” he said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hey, I had a plan!” Dante protested.

“More importantly,” Trish interrupted, “we need to figure out how we’ll go now. If we cannot open our own portal, then we will need to get someone to do it for us. There is one possibility.”

“Sparda ambush?” Lady asked. “Now _that_ ’s gonna be a challenge.”

Which, if her tone served as indication, she considered an exciting prospect. Vergil begged to differ, yet if the idea bothered Dante, his brother didn’t protest. Instead, he shifted around the couch’s to form a small triangle with his two partners and more easily exchange ideas on how to get Sparda’s attention, starting with the Devil Sword Sparda and their respective devil triggers. Nico used the opportunity to leave to get Red Queen.

Kyrie remained entirely quiet, her hands folded on her lap, pale and fatigued. Vergil remembered when he had first found her, staring at the stars on a sleepless night, worry etched into the line barring her forehead and the pinch of her lips. She wore a similar expression now, but one filled with resignation. Vergil wished he had words for her, but only empty reassurances drifted to his mind, so he kept his peace and focused on what would really bring Nero back and the first hurdle in their plan.

He should have paid more attention to Sparda’s arrival during the battle, but beyond the wave of power washing over him, he’d seen nothing. Memories of the battle clung to him in confused pieces, slipping through his fingers as he reached for them. From the moment the van’s black sludge had closed down on him, he’d lost track of his surroundings, dragged into the fragmented nightmares of Nelo Angelo. Those should have been gone, taken from him as Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare, but he suspected the damaged pieces of his soul he’d reintegrated had carried their own memories. Nico had pulled him back to the present, however, and he’d freed himself, slicing through the sludge holding him midair. He’d…

Vergil’s breath caught and he stared at his bare hands. He hadn’t had the Yamato at the time either, no more than he’d had it when he’d cut through the curtain of black sludge at the van’s entrance. How--

“Nico!” He spun on his heel, ignoring the shocked look his interruption got him from Dante, Lady, and Trish, and rushed to the garage. Nicoletta was sitting on the ground, Red Queen on her lap and a toolkit by her side. She’d seen him free himself of the sludge, could provide him with the details. Vergil stopped at the top of the small stairs leading down, his heart hammering. “When I was in the van--when I escaped the sludge… what did it look like?"

Nico set her screwdriver down. "You didn't escape that shit, V-man, you vaporized it. Put a shitton of blue slashes into it, and then it went _shhink_ and turned into a weird ugly green crystal and just _poofed_!" She made little explosion signs with her hands then picked up her tool again. "It was fucking a- _ma_ -zing if you ask me, even if you turned your clothes into tiny ribbons and looked like shit after. I gotta say, I really owe ya for my ass out there. You need any favours, and you can count on this master gunsmith!"

Nico tapped her temple with the screwdriver then returned to her work. Vergil stared without really looking, too deep in thoughts, excitement prickling along his skin. He remembered how it'd felt, slicing through the curtain of sludge--like his very being had an edge. He'd cast himself forward, hadn't he? As if he'd sought to extend the Yamato's blade in the distance and execute a judgement cut. And… it had worked.

Vergil scanned the garage until he found the pile of detritus left from the battle--scraps of devil breaker and a broken shelf which had been partly disintegrated, on top of other unidentifiable junk. He set his hand against the door frame and closed his eyes, seeking that strange sensation within himself. It'd come on its own in the midst of battle, one power among many, used on instinct. It reminded him of his early teenage years, when the Yamato guided his movements more than his own skills, except he hadn't felt the katana's will twining with his own this time.

Because he didn't have the Yamato itself, only its powers. Fragments of its essence within his, from the time they had both drifted through the world, broken. An imprint, but not only of the memories he’d experienced in Fortuna Castle’s labs, when he had been there with Nero. Of its powers, too.

And right now, its powers was all he needed.

Vergil refocused his attention on the pile of scraps, and this time, he felt it--an edge along his self, an extension of himself untethered to his physical body. He didn't understand it, not really, but he didn't question it either. As long as it got him to Nero… everything else could wait. He reached for the strange sharpness and sent it forth, slicing through air, metal, and plastic. Blue lines shimmered across the junk, then it slid further to the ground, cut into tinier pieces. Nico whistled.

"Yup. Just like that, except a hundred times more intense!"

Vergil swallowed as he examined the result of his work and experienced the cost of it. Heaviness had settled into his muscles as if he'd been training for days without pause and sweat trickled down his neck. He forced his breathing into a slower rhythm, calming himself, then quested for that strange edge sensation within himself. It was still there, ready to answer him.

The Yamato could cut through anything, including the veil separating the human and demon world.

Could he?

###

From the moment they left Nero's home, Lady had bombarded him with one question after another. When his answers had consisted of grunts and silences, she’d snapped at him a few times for being cranky and mysterious, then moved to the van’s front seat and bounced her questions off Nico instead, as if he couldn’t hear every theory about him being more demon sword than human at this point. Vergil knew part of the goal was to rile him up, but he didn’t have the energy to play the game and threaten her back. He stared at his hands and the broad blade beneath, his thumb running along Red Queen’s fuel groove.

Nero would have laughed at him and cheekily commented on Vergil deigning to touch his “motor sword”. Red Queen may not have the Yamato’s spirit, but she remained Nero’s trusted sword, engineered by his own hands. It was such a human way to put yourself into a weapon… Vergil shut his eyes and forced a slow exhale through his tightened throat. It’d be all right. They could do this.

Boots landed on his lap, right on top of Red Queen, startling Vergil. He turned to glare at Dante, which only earned him a cheeky grin and wiggling eyebrows. Dante was daring him to comment, or throw his feet off if he didn’t like them--he knew Vergil wouldn’t, that the small ways Dante had pushed himself into Vergil’s space over the last hour helped keep him grounded and calm. He’d always have his annoying little brother, pushing his buttons and fooling around, present in a strange, specific way Vergil had grown to rely on. He leaned back into his seat.

“I won’t forget this insult, Dante,” he promised.

“Whatcha gonna do, send me another shipment of olives? I just gave those to Trish, y’know?”

Vergil glanced her way. She smiled at him with a long, lazy stretch from her spot sitting on the table. He could not remember when he had last seen her use an actual seat, if one excluded the video call where they’d had limited space.

“Good for her,” he said, “but I’m certain I can renew my revenge tactics and find a more surprising comeback.”

Trish pouted. “Why not both? I do appreciate the olives.”

“As any person of taste would.”

Dante dug his heel into Vergil’s leg at the comment, but they fell silent once more. Fortuna Castle’s spires stretched upward through the front window, dark spikes against the rosy evening sky, and Vergil’s heart accelerated as they grew closer. Nero had hated this place, called it bullshit central, yet it had one unique property which might save him: here, the veil between the human and demon world grew thinner than anywhere else on Fortuna. So thin, Vergil had said, that he might cut it by accident, sneezing with the Yamato in hand. His grip on the Yamato’s powers within himself was slippery at best, but here, perhaps…

No perhaps. Failure was not an option.

Vergil tightened one hand over Red Queen’s handle and shut out the rest of the world, focusing on the unfamiliar sensation of an edge within, desperate to get used to it, to let it become a part of him. He didn’t have time for proper training, so this would have to do. He barely noticed the van stopping, walked past the castle’s bridge and through its main hall without paying any heed to his surroundings, and only emerged from his hyperfocus when Dante squeezed his shoulder. They had reached the courtyard.

“All up to you, bro.” Dante conjured his Devil Sword and set it on his shoulder with carefully crafted ease. “We’re all ready to dive in.”

Trish was leaning lazily on a long purplish scythe, Sparda’s twin guns at her hips, while Lady had the Kalina Ann strapped on her back and waited, hands on her hips. How many threats had Dante eliminated with their help through the years? How many had they, on their own? Vergil disliked the idea of so many near-strangers involved in such a personal matter, but the stakes did not allow for his discomfort to be indulged. They were competent fighters. His pride could take all the battering in the world if it gave him Nero back.

Vergil returned his focus to the tingling along his arms, the dangerous fragility he’d first felt upon entering Fortuna Castle with Nero, like the veil was paper thin and the demon world could break it at any time. He needed that weakness now: his internal edge as Yamato was dull, untrained.

He raised his hand, palm outward, and inhaled deeply, shifting his focus to let the world fade away, his awareness of the human presences nearby dimming, his sight blurring as it slid away from the concrete and reached for the world below. Blue motes of light floated from his feet, drifting up, pulsing with soft demonic power. His head rang, but his vague sense of the veil sharpened until he could almost have gripped it, and the Yamato’s soul within him responded, waves of power syncing with the blue motes. It coursed through Vergil, his entire body tensing as it traversed him, muscles clenched from an invisible effort. The energy gathered in his extended palm, a thin blue line of unequalled sharpness, and Vergil fingers twitched as he placed it against the veil. Every inch of him vibrated with the effort, but he extended the thin edge up and down.

The veil’s quiet rip resonated through him as a tear appeared. Power poured out of his body, burning him as it went, extending the opening into a proper door. Vergil stumbled with a gasp, brutal pain robbing him of his legs, but two strong hands grabbed him before he hit the ground.

“Looks like your portal-opening days will never be over, Vergil!” Dante declared. “Up for the next step?”

Vergil batted him away, straightening up despite his wobbling legs. They all stared at him, and in truth he felt as though he’d fought a thousand demons and then some. He wiped the sweat trickling down his neck. “Evidently. Let’s go, before it closes down.”

His voice had stayed pleasantly steady. Cutting the veil had cost him, but he’d manage. He could still fight and he refused to stay behind. Red Queen on his back, Vergil stepped into the portal of his own making, into the demon world still holding Nero captive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could say Vergil is a very edgy boy. :]
> 
> DEMON WORLD COMING 2020 !! See you on Jan 1 for it ~


	40. Into the Demon World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil, Dante, Lady, and Trish descend into the demon world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the demon world, as imagined by me! Special thanks to the disgusting fungus of the 90s Mario Bros movie for the inspiration haha

A sticky organic membrane caught Vergil’s feet as he stepped into Hell, wrapping around his feet and almost tripping him. They had arrived in a cavern and the pale substance clung to its walls, stretching from stalactites and ridges as it reached down, transforming the wide area into a tight space. The hellish fungus had its own parasites growing upon it, slimy warts that bathed the surrounding area in purplish luminescence and gave off a putrid scent. The substance formed the entire floor, an elastic membrane that dipped under his weight as he stepped forward. Vergil glanced down, and through the web of fungus, he glimpsed sharp cliffs and an abyss. A canyon. They were standing over nothing. Truly, he had not missed Hell’s peculiar landscapes.

“What the fuck?” Lady asked. Although she was much smaller than Dante and him, the weight of her weaponry made her sink lower, and the fungus had promptly gripped most of her red boots. “I should’ve brought a flamethrower.”

“Perhaps you should look beneath you again before you reiterate this wish,” Vergil pointed out.

“What, is Mister Demon King too tired to take the fall into rushing water?”

Rushing… water? Vergil tilted his head to the side. If he paid attention, he could hear a stream in the distance, but it would never be close enough to save her from certain death.

“Fall might be a bit much for your bones, babe,” Dante said, confirming Vergil’s estimation of her survival chances. “I say we find another way down to it. See where it leads. We lookin’ for a Basin, no?”

“There’s no rushing water,” Trish interrupted. “It’s a trick Hell plays on outsiders--on humans.” She grabbed Lady’s and pulled her out of the thickest layer of fungus before turning to the twins. “How did you two ever survive in Hell if you can’t navigate its illusions?”

Vergil’s gaze slid towards Dante, who shrugged and grinned. They had spent most of their time in Hell fighting each other, not hiking across the demon world’s unequal and ever dangerous landscapes. The most travel they’d done had involved seeking the Qliphoth’s roots, and Vergil could have found those with his eyes closed. The demonic tree had spread through Hell as much as it had in the human world, and he’d felt echoes of its roots with every stride, the fruit’s power tying him to it.

The Black Basin shouldn’t have spoken to him in a similar fashion, and yet as Vergil’s portal to the human world closed and his senses refocused on the demon world, its presence crawled at the edge of his mind, a pulse calling to him. It set his skin crawling and he pressed his lips together, fighting off memories of its sludge wrapped around him. If ever he needed proof that he had been there before…

“Trish. Can you feel it?”

She must have been born from it, too, and Mundus had repaired her with it once. Perhaps he was not alone. She flicked her hair with a frown.

“Feel what?”

No such luck, then, and now the three others stared at him, waiting for the answer to her question. Vergil clenched his fingers and stared at the chasm beneath them, battling his natural desire to forego any explanation.

“The Black Basin, of course.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Lady parroted, and the amount of I-will-absolutely-shoot-you in her voice brought a vague smile to his lips. “Nothing fucked up about that at all. You sure you did your comeback from the dead right, Vergil? Because it sounds like the temporary demon cemetery place wants you back.”

He glared at her, forcing the cold anger to cover how close to his own thoughts she’d landed her shot. Perhaps he had always been meant to return to the Basin and his brief time in the human world was nothing but borrowed time--an undeserved life, as ephemeral as every other period of happiness in his history. Yet that would mean Nero had been wrong and his life _was_ supposed to stop turning once this came to an end. Perhaps it had never been supposed to start doing so at all.

Vergil hated the thought. Survival had been an unseemly, brutal battle, and the path to his revival fraught with danger and regrets. Yet he’d found so much in this life worth protecting and fighting for--more than he would’ve ever thought possible. He refused to accept himself as fated to death. If he died here, it would be by choice, to bring Nero back to the human world and break the terrifying cycle now sketching itself before his very eyes. Vergil could not allow his son to suffer his fate and miss out on his baby’s growth--and if he was honest, Vergil had no desire to miss them, either.

“I’m afraid I have no intention of letting it have any of us,” he said.

“Now that’s what I like to hear! Let’s get out of fungal galore, shall we?” Dante asked, gesturing at the surrounding area. “If ya think Nero’s at the Basin, then that’s where we go. A fun little roadtrip, just the four of us.”

“No place like Hell for it,” Trish added, leaning on him with a smirk. “Let’s ride this fungus down.”

“Ride?” Lady repeated, disgust thick in her voice.

“Down?” Vergil added, not bothering to hide his anger. How could Trish have known this was the right direction, if she didn’t feel the Black Basin? “Why did you pretend it did not call to you?”

Her eyebrows shot up and she crossed her arms without relinquishing Dante as her support, leaning on him as she would on a wall. “I did no such thing. I asked you what you expected me to feel. Any conclusions you drew from that is your own mistake.”

Vergil lifted his chin, refusing to admit to any such thing. She had purposefully led him to this conclusion and both of them knew it. “How, then, do you know where to go?”

“So you _have_ forgotten,” she said, an unusual quiet hitch in her voice that immediately sent a shiver down his spine. Part of him did not want to know what she referred to--a sense of self-preservation, no doubt, as he and Trish had only one thing in common. She gave him the answer anyway. “The unlucky demons who couldn’t track Mundus’s presence always found themselves in his way when his mood took a turn for the worst. Although perhaps for you it made little difference. He had a tendency to seek you out, no matter what else you were occupied with.”

Fragments of memory drifted through his mind, of a castle’s walls and the oppressive presence behind him, of pain along his spine and shoulders where an armour had been set in. They melded into one another, timeless and distant, barely his at all. He had not belonged to himself, and neither did the memories. It was a blessing, that he couldn’t sense his presence.

“So he’s… here.”

“And in the Basin’s direction, it’d seem,” she confirmed.

He closed his eyes, and a circle traced itself in his mind. A cycle, repeating itself, inexorable. He hadn’t understood how accurate his initial thought had been, how Nero already walked Vergil’s dreadful path. What could Mundus want with him? Had it been him at all? Dante had been clear about the name pronounced by Sparda, when he’d first met him, and it had not been Nero’s. If his son has been taken in his stead…

“Well now!” Dante exclaimed, shattering Vergil’s dark thoughts and rising guilt. “That’s a demon I can’t wait to reduce into pathetic goop. I bet we’ll get there and Nero will have half the job done for us. What d’ya say, Vergil? Time to show this three-eyed vomit pile what we’re made of?”

Vergil sought Dante’s gaze. What _was_ he made of? Pieces of souls glued together to the best of his ability, decades of regrets and trauma buried under strict discipline. He had broken himself into the only shape he expected to survive and forgotten all that mattered along the way. But that… that wasn’t all him anymore. Love and anger burned within him now, guiding him, motivating him. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, pushing out doubts for now.

“A lovely proposition, brother, but let’s not waste any more time.”

After all, every second wasted discussing it was one more Nero spent with Mundus, one more crack in the fragile calm with which he held himself together.

###

When everyone started debating the best way to ride the fungus down, Dante found a thick strand hanging from the ceiling, casually wrapped it around his arm then his waist, under his coat, then sprinted for an opening in the sticky membrane. His grin widened as they spotted him, Trish’s sigh immediately buried by the two others’ reactions.

“Dante, what are you--” Vergil started.

“Of course you’re gonna j--”

He never heard the end of their annoyed protests as he dove down the hole with a whoop, air rushing all around as the fungus stretched behind him. It flapped in rhythm with his coat, then snapped as it hit its limit and spun Dante out, unfurling from where it was wrapped around his waist. He spread his arms out with a laugh as he twirled, clasping his fingers into the fungus the moment his hips had been released, then spinning himself up to wrap his hands in it like a circus rope. It had been ages since he’d gone through the routines of his teenage youth, but they’d been hammered into his muscle memory and Dante followed up every spin and twist with the next as if it’d been yesterday while the fungus stretched on like a bungee cord.

He ran out of routine before he hit the ground and the shroom kept stretching, on and on, the ambient darkness now only broken by the occasional luminescent vegetation along the jagged cliffs. Thankfully the demons found him before it started getting boring. Giant millipedes skittered along the walls and fungus, offering themselves as target as he wrapped his legs in the fungus and drew out Ebony and Ivory. Dante grinned, blasted the two dashing for him on the stretched out shroom, then sat himself up, back along the thin membrane as if relaxing while he cribled a few others. This was fun, he didn’t see why the others complained or--woah!

Dante brought his knees close to spin himself, getting his feet under him before his head met the rushing ground first, power coursing through him in case he needed to snap his wings and slow his fall. Large spherical structures had emerged, lined with a gooey, bluish substance, like big goopy eggs. Which they probably were, considering the number of crawlies everywhere around.

The fungus ran out before he crashed through, pulling against his arm before stretching a few last meters and finding its limit. Dante released it and dropped, boots squishing into slimy eggs, and the fungus ripped some skin off its forearm as it snapped back up, coiling away in the darkness. Dante waved it away before calling upon the Devil Sword and splitting it, lighting the area with its fiery core. At least a dozen of these cute lil’ hell bugs rushed him and none of his team had joined him yet, so he had this party all for himself!

Dante leaped forward and landed into a slide, skidding across the eggs’ slimy surface as he stabbed forward, demonic energy swirling from the tip of the Devil Sword into a cone of power. It rammed through the first centipede, sinking all the way to the hilt, and when Dante spun around, the demon followed the momentum, slipping off the blade with the quick turn and flying into another. Dante blew it a goodbye kiss.

The egg shifted under his feet as another centipede landed under it. Dante grinned then leaped into a backflip, releasing the Devil Sword as he drew Ebony and Ivory and cribbled the insect with holes. It was dead long before Dante landed on it, leaning backward so the shock would send it sliding along the eggs’s curve, right towards a group of four. He could have blown them off long before he reached them, but where was the fun in that? Dante whooped as he sped, eyes adjusting to the ambient darkness, and shifted its weight so his bug-ride started spinning.

“Here I come, baby!”

He wiped King Cerberus out, twirling its flaming staff version and slashing through the air, sending great waves of fire around and clearing great swipes of bugs as he slid past them, turning on himself--then the egg vanished from under his ride, and Dante kicked himself up in the air, landing between a trio of centipede as he reverted King C. to its icy nunchuck form and clipped it on his back, calling the Devil Sword up again. A bug spat at him, a stinky substance glowing the same blue as the eggs beneath, and the goo ate through his cloak and skin under. Dante tsked.

“That’s gonna cost ya, friend.”

He made good on its promise, kicking the bug up in the air before whirling the Devil Sword, slicing through its chitin a dozen times in a few seconds. Dante spun on himself while the two others spat towards him, slapping the flat of his blade into the goo and sending it flying back at them. They hissed as he followed the projectile with three quick wide slash, grabbed one by its mandibles and threw it up in the air. Ebony and Ivory sang as he shot it fast enough to keep it floating.

A great guitar riff joined the music of his bullets, and electricity lit the sky behind his demon as Trish came flying down, fungus wrapped around her waist while she powered Nevan with her own energy. She landed hard and exploded in a great sphere of lightning, zapping half a dozen of the little buggers, her hair rising with the static. Dante whooped.

“Way to kick the party off, Trish!”

She saluted him, then the fungus at her waist snapped back upward, pulling her with it. She laughed as she twirled the guitar, snapping Nevan into its scythe form then slicing through the shroom. As Trish twirled mid air, several rockets flew right past her and sank into one of the biggest eggs. The mini missiles crawled towards the center in eerie silence for two strange seconds before exploding, blasting the egg into a shower of phosphorescent blue goop covering Dante and Trish from head to toe. Lady landed in the middle of her destruction, cutting through her fungus ride with the bayonet.

“I hate this place,” she declared, setting the Kalina-Ann against the ground. “The ground won’t keep still, I keep seeing false lights, and my ears can’t decide if they hear water, a chorus of angels, or some bullshit armour clanking.” She leaned on her rocket launcher. “So you’ll all have to excuse me if I don’t shoot that giant bug behind you, Dante, but I just can’t tell if it’s real.”

The demon aura pressing against Dante’s told him it was quite real, and this one wasn’t quite as small fry as the others, but he stayed put and burst out laughing, turning only very slowly. A second demonic aura had tingled his senses, intrinsically familiar and no longer synonymous with danger. Flames from Nero’s Red Queen lit Vergil’s frown as he plummeted down, wings spread behind him and entirely fungus free. He slashed down, blade cutting through a ten-foot tall chitinous body, and the rocks cracked under his feet as he landed right behind Dante. Vergil burst forward, tail snapping from his partial devil trigger snipping at Dante’s calf playfully (no way that was an accident) as he launched himself into the great bug, fiery blade melting the chitin and piercing through with ease. Time wobbled as he worked, silent but for a dismissive scoff, which would have been more impressive if not for the way Red Queen’s motor sputtered once as he fought. Dante laughed, earning himself a glare, and within a few minutes, the greater demon lay in a hundred different pieces on the ground. Vergil’s tail flicked as he set the tip of Red Queen back against the ground.

“Are we done playing?” he asked.

“Just killin’ time till you joined us, Vergil!” Dante replied. “What’s your basin sludge magic rod saying? We far down enough?”

“See for yourself, Dante.”

He gestured behind Dante, where the dark cliff side had started throbbing with the same blue glow as the egg, the light tracing a runic pattern he’d stumbled every now and then even in the overworld. The goo had been painted on the jagged rock, and from here part of the circular, complex rune didn’t quite match, but Dante knew he only needed to take a step to the left to line it up and watch a door unfold.

“Good ol’ secret doors, even down here, huh?”

“It’s recent, isn’t it?” Trish asked. “It feels like it doesn’t belong.”

“The Yamato created it, I believe.” Hesitation betrayed Vergil’s doubts as he replied, and when Trish cocked her eyebrows, he added, “Or something derived from it. The shard, perhaps.”

Damn, how did these two guess that much? All Dante felt was the way the door tickled his senses, distorting time and space around it. He glanced at Lady, who stared at all three of them with utter bewilderment.

“Can’t even see the door, Lady?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, which might as well have been a yes.

The rhythmic cadence of chitinous claws slamming into stone cliffs bounced around the abyss as it echoed from the top, interrupting Dante before he could tease his friend. This sounded like a big one! He grinned and drew the Devil Sword, tilting his head up to watch the incoming demon, hoping this one would prove a challenge.

A massive insectoid demon crawled down, wide enough for its legs to slam into both sides of the canyon, sending sharp rocks flying. Its body wasn't chitin and flesh, though: it was an assembly of bones both giant and minuscule, arranged in grotesque articulations barely evoking a centipede's form and held together by the elastic fungus they'd all ridden down to the ground. Several sacks of blue eggs clung to this abomination’s body, held tight against it by the translucent fungus membrane.

Acid goop dripped from it, and as they watched its descent, it threw a flurry of bones, swinging them at the end of the elastic fungus--spears and scythes of death flying for them. Vergil sidestepped with an eyeroll while Lady shot the spear coming for her off-course. Trish dodged a massive hammer-like bone before slicing the fungus attached to it, preventing it from swinging back upward. Dante deflected the bone with a quick slice of the Devil Sword and brought it backward, calling upon his demonic energy to summon his wings and prepare himself to leap.

“I think the big bug friend has a bone to pick with us!”

Vergil's tail wrapped around his ankle as Dante sprang up, wings flaring behind him, and his brother yanked him back into the ground. Stone cracked under Dante as he landed with a _oof_.

"I do not have time to waste fighting every devil infesting this accursed realm, Dante," he snapped. "Lag behind if you wish to, but I am moving on.”

Dante pushed himself on his elbow as Vergil strode away, tail trailing behind him with an angry swish. He ought count himself lucky Vergil had even spent a few seconds to stop him from fighting this bone centipede instead of walking off wordlessly, but he couldn’t help his pout. “But it’s right there!”

All this earned him was a dismissive wave of Vergil’s hand. “Make haste, Dante.”

Dante huffed and scrambled up, but he couldn’t help a wistful look at the devil. It had all these dangly bits, weird articulations, and stretchy fungus parts… it just looked so fun to fight! Trish caught his glance up and laughed. “Looks like this one’s ours, Dante. Don’t expect any leftovers.”

“You’re never that generous,” he replied, then a mass of spiky bones came flying for him, forcing him to jump back. He looked between--Trish, scythe in hand, electricity crackling all over Nevan and her arms, an almost feral grin stretching on her face; and Lady, holding herself to the Kalina-Ann as it gathered power for a flurry of missiles--and grinned. “Break a leg, ladies! Or a thousands, in his case.”

Lady groaned at the bad pun and shooed him off. “Go after your brother before he gets killed again.”

“And Dante.” Trish turned to look over her shoulders, the sparks of lightning reflecting in purple lights within her serious gaze. “Give Mundus my regards.”

Dante laughed, saluted Lady and Trish, then ran after Vergil. His brother had a point: Nero didn’t have a moment to spare, and there’d be plenty of other demons to fight in the coming decades. He could skip a battle or two, not matter how much bungee this one had promised to include. Devil Sword in hand and resolve hardening, he jumped through the gate to the Black Basin, wings still flared behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante: *sees fungus* *sees abyss* BUNGEE AND CIRCUS TIME BABY


	41. Father and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante and Vergil come face to face with Sparda once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost titled this "Sins of the Father" after the MGS song, and tbh, it would have been fitting too.
> 
> Fair warning to everyone: starting now and until February 5, everything is kiinda cliffhangery? There is always something else big to come, though only next week update's really leaves you hanging in the middle of it. Use that information however you want haha.

The seal's wards closed down on him, threads of power wrapping around his human form, suppressing the demon within. Raw power caging his own, trapping him. Familiar power, old and bitter, fuelled by hatred as much as by the Qliphoth's energy. After two thousand years, he would have recognized Mundus's magic anywhere.

A trap, then.

Sparda tested his will against it, his own power pressing on Mundus's strength. Energy crackled all around him, his skin hardened, horns sprouted out of his human disguise. The bonds dug deeper into his skin, jolting pain through his arm and body--seeping a taint deeper, into his core. Soul poison, perhaps? But no, no one but the Guardian could do that.

The magic Mundus had used was of a different sort, darker, more unnatural. More gruesome. How many humans had died for this trap? How many lives taken, and for what? This trap would not hold him forever, and he sensed no ripple in the veil around, no signs of demons crossing to attack him. Was this a test? At his full power, Sparda would have destroyed this measly trap, but most of his strength had been stored within Force Edge, Rebellion, and the Yamato. Sparda huffed and settled on the ground, cross-legged. He sank into himself, forcing his mind past the bindings’ pain, to examine its workings. Mundus was a being of brute force and his cunning was limited. Given time, Sparda would find the fault in his spell and trim it away, freeing himself.

Alarm coursed through him, the unique clarillon of danger he’d set into the wards around his domain. To warn him of any attack, so he could defend the most precious three of his life. Demons had entered his territory, his home.

Sparda had an eternity to unravel Mundus’s spell. His family did not.

At least he has saved Vergil. Not in time, not that day, but he has found him again, Yamato in hand, and brought him to safety where the Guardian could heal him. He can feel his boy’s energy shift and transform under the Guardian’s care and he is thankful for the help. He wishes he could have saved Dante, too, but he has felt the twisted aura of the Rebellion and knows the Guardian’s words to be true. They killed his son, took the Rebellion from him. He will have his vengeance, in time.

Protecting Vergil comes first. The Guardian is almost done with his work, but in the meantime, no one must reach him. Sparda waits, all senses cast out, and as a demon awash in the Qliphoth’s power steps through the entrance, his anger flares and his wings buzz alive.

There is only one who has consumed the Qliphoth’s fruit. Only one who would come after his family again. Sparda knows his duty.

He will not let anything happen to his family again.

###

In Vergil’s experience, the demon world treated the laws of physics as tools to be twisted and played with, and the Black Basin proved yet another instance of this truth. The ground out of the portal extended into a thin, frayed bridge which broke off after a dozen feet. No visible light bathed the space, yet Vergil could see far beyond the portal, to a distant curved wall in the background lined with black veins. Up and down the cylindrical area were several spheres of black sludge, the substance contained into a wide red net. None of it dripped through despite the large holes, as if the liquid was held together by its own central gravity. The spheres differed in size and density, and the echoes of hundreds of demon souls reached Vergil, drifting out of them.

Sparda stood below one such sphere, feet in the pool through the net, hanging upside down. His hands wrapped around a majestic sword and his eyes stared at Vergil, burning with a once-reassuring golden light. The dark substance crawled up his legs, filling up the cracks in his knightly armour of chitin and covering his downturned horns in a slim layer. Power rose within Sparda, a pulse Vergil recognized at once yet didn’t--it was different, broken and twisted out of shape, and so much more aggressive than he could remember experiencing.

But it was him. Vergil’s stomach twisted with the absolute certainty of this knowledge. Somewhere beyond the cracked, corrupted demon body, Sparda waited.

“Father…”

What would he say, if he came back to his senses? Would Sparda resent Vergil for breaking the seals on the Temen-ni-gru, or would he understand? They knew so little of their father beyond occasional hours of play, had no clue of his thoughts and desires and goals. They had been children, entrusted with swords holding more power than they could comprehend, with a legacy that far exceeded the scope of what they could bear. Humans but not, both branded by Mundus’s hatred long before they could understand it. And Vergil had fallen so deep and so low before he finally found his way out.

Vergil’s grip tightened on Red Queen’s handle, the heavy motor sword a tangible reminder of what had brought him here. His father might be buried within this creature, but this demon had dragged Nero into the demon world. He had brought his son to Mundus. Doubts and fears scattered away as Vergil met Sparda’s burning eyes. He steeled himself for the fight and its potential consequences.

A great buzz filled the cavern as three pairs of wings sprung to life and Sparda launched himself downward with an overwhelming burst of power.

Red Queen met the dark greatsword before it could slice through Vergil, and the impact reverberated through his entire body, stone bridge cracking under his feet as he held the position. The blades sparked, and one hit the motor sword’s fuel trench, setting it afire. Vergil snarled and held on, muscles straining against Sparda’s push, sludge dripping on his fingers and burning his skin. Sparda leaned harder, his power throbbing within the broken, corrupted shell.

"Mun...dus," he growled.

The cracks across Sparda's body had made it into his voice, ravaging the deep bass Vergil remembered. Shock distracted him for a split second--enough for Sparda to shove hard and send him flying backward. Vergil glimpsed him rushing in for a follow-up strike and twisted midair, bringing Red Queen to bear in time to deflect the blackened sword. Sparda spun it back into an upward cut within a split second, and Vergil’s heart stopped--he’d never parry that strike. His instincts kicked in and he snapped time around himself to a stop before warping above Sparda’s head, flaming Red Queen ready to bring in a brutal slash down. Sparda changed flight trajectory with ease, his beetle wings allowing incredible mobility as he spun and pursued Vergil.

Their swords met midair--once, twice, thrice--then a salvo of bullets hit Sparda’s blade, adding to the melody of battle. As the dark knight turned with a grunt, a final bullet charged with demonic energy slammed into his forehead, snapping his head back. Vergil dove for the opening and sliced Red Queen through the right wing, his feet landing as blood and sludge splattered him.

Dante stood closer to the entrance, his twin guns smoking, his lopsided smirk tinted by anger.

“Hey dad, did you forget you made two of us?” He spun the guns and stored them back in their holsters with a flourish. “We come in a pair now. You can’t fight either of us alone. It’d break my heart!”

Dante placed his hand over it with a smirk, his eyes shining red as demonic power swirled within him and spread through his body, leaving hard black skin and flaming ridges, hair swept back as his simplest devil form shone through. Vergil snorted.

“Always so dramatic, brother,” he scolded, extending a single arm to the side as he reached within for the cold, unyielding wave of his own demonic nature. Bones broke and reshaped within an instant, hair twirled and rose and hardened into horns while his skin crackled with power and turned to hard scales. He exhaled, light-headed from the transformation, and a strange red flame near his arms caught his eyes. Where the Yamato normally shone blue in its arm-sheathe, Red Queen had turned a deep, angry red.

Sparda stood steady between them on the thin bridge, his cracked and corrupted body a rock, unmoving in the eye of the storm that was the twins swirling power. Yet Vergil had felt had felt the strength contained within. They would do well not to underestimate him. His fingers curled into a fist, his muscles tense as he readied a first flurry of summon sword. Across from him, Dante’s wings snapped, stretching for a rush forward.

The three of them moved at once. Dante exploded with energy as he leaped forward, wings closing around him as quick red flames lit the air and formed a deadly cone. He spun on himself, his whole body a weapon, the tip of his wings piercing through the spheres of pure darkness Sparda sent flying his way. Vergil led his own charge with a flurry of summoned swords, all of which shattered when Sparda released a swarm of dark red motes of energy in their way. He hadn’t turned around, but as Vergil brought the flaming Red Queen to bear--perfectly timed with Dante’s full-bodied stinger--the area surrounding Sparda shifted.

Time pulsed through Vergil in new and foreign ways as Sparda yanked it out of its flow, brutally ending it. Where Vergil cut time and space out, bringing his body across space faster than most could follow, Sparda slammed everything shut through sheer force of will, and the shockwave of his pulse left Vergil’s nauseous and gasping. Sparda had vanished, forcing Vergil to reach for his own abilities to manipulate the world around him before Dante eviscerated him. He sidestepped his twin and was about to release the timefold when he detected Sparda’s presence--right above Dante, greatsword ready for a deadly strike.

Panic coursed through Vergil and he flung his willpower against Sparda’s, pulling at his father’s control of time as he jumped. He distorted it out of the demon’s grasp long enough to get Red Queen in the way, interrupting Sparda’s trajectory while Dante sped past. The greatsword slammed into his blade and they both hit the ground hard and fast, great cracks forming into the thin bridge. It gave out under them as pain coursed through Vergil’s back, a burning flash-fire, healed as fast as it’d appeared. Sparda raised his sword again, ready to cut through him, but Dante looped back and drilled into him, demolishing the cracked guard running up his legs.

They fought on as they fell, father against sons, demonic powers and blades clashing in the deadly silent Black Basin vestibule until they landed upon one of the spheres. It pulled at them, its gravity real, and Vergil’s heart hammered as his feet landed on the net, a childish part of him terrified of stepping in between and sinking in. Dante and Vergil fell into a joint rhythm, following up their twin's attacks, trusting each other to cover opening in their own defenses. They were a blur of red and blue spinning and leaping in-between the spheres, always around Sparda's darker unmovable presence.

The Legendary Dark Knight flew in the middle of their whirlwind, rising or lowering with them, wings buzzing as he maneuvered between their attacks, his direction changing with an ease neither Dante’s nor Vergil’s wings permitted. Two purplish summoned blades accompanied him, in Rebellion’s and Yamato’s image, and unlike Vergil’s fragile swords, they didn’t vanish upon impact. The battle turned into a flurry of blades and demonic powers, Sparda and Vergil pulling at time and space to keep full control away from the other, bubbles of distorted time joining the spheres of sludge.

Dante kept rushing in, announcing his attacks with the usual quips about bug squashing and partying ("sorry to cut through the bonding time" hurt in ways he probably hadn't meant) switching so fast between his weapons Vergil often wondered if his devil powers didn't include invisible extra hands. Dante’s infuriating unreliability in daily life transformed into his best asset in battle: he was unpredictable, the full brunt of his creativity and impulsivity channelled into a deadly dance. Despite it all, Vergil slid in and out of his brother's attack with ease, reading him as easily when fighting by his side as he’d always had fighting against him. They made a perfect team, should have been unstoppable, yet Sparda traded blows with them on equal footing, tearing through their wings and chest and arms, answering each wound he received with equivalent pain. Vergil studied Sparda for signs of a slowdown on his part, but found nothing.

He did, however, notice how Sparda startled every time the Devil Sword Dante disappeared. It lasted for a flicker of a second, but he always blinked as if disoriented. If Vergil could stretch that single instant into a longer span…

“Dante,” he called before pressing middle and index fingers together--their long-time sign for ‘together’, when they were children sparring, desperate to coordinate and land a hit on their father.

Far across from him, upside-down while tied to the gravity of another sphere, Dante grinned and saluted in return. He dashed a few quick strides along the surface then leaped up, bringing King Cerberus’ three-maced head close to him as he spun midair, creating a large revolver of ice. The serrated edges hit Sparda twice as Dante approached, then he brought his knees close to shift his spin, landed one boot on the shoulder’s chitin pauldrons, and launched himself past Sparda, towards Vergil. He could have flown over their father, but _no_ , he had to be stylish about it.

And then he paid for it.

Sparda twisted about, hands clasping on Dante’s boots, claws digging into his ankle. He snarled as he spun on himself and sent him flying directly into a nearby sphere. Dante smashed through the red net, sinking into the sludge, eyes wide in shock. His devil trigger exploded into its full form then vanished as the sludge crawled all over him, dragging him down.

Vergil did not pause to consider his options. Fear took over and he bolted across the wide space, landing hard on the net next to Dante and clasping his hand around his brother’s forearm, yanking him out. They rolled over the net, kept to it only by the sphere’s internal gravity, Dante sputtering and flailing like an idiot to get sludge off him. Vergil’s laughter had just begun when Sparda slammed into him from behind, destroying more of the net and plunging Vergil’s left half into the substance.

His devil trigger snapped out, recoiling from the acidic burn and surge of memories. Hot pain ignited where once the spikes of Nelo Angelo’s armour had been and he barely heard Dante’s voice through the buzz in his skull. He did feel hands pulling him out and tearing off his coat, getting rid of a good chunk of the sludge and instantly clearing his mind. He was still standing, Red Queen loose in his other hand, Dante by his side. Sparda flew all too close, threatening to dive back before they’d talked.

Vergil sent a flurry of summoned swords at his father to busy him and could not help but wonder if this corrupted, twisted version of their father recognized their shape--if he understood, on any level, that Vergil naturally called upon Force Edge when attacking. A battlefield was no place for such sentimentality, however, and he had precious few seconds to discuss strategy with his little brother.

"When you release the Devil Sword--"

"He gets all confuddled ya," Dante confirmed, voice as strained as Vergil felt. They were running out of stamina. "Wanna use that?"

"Confuddled is not a word, Dante." Vergil blew air through his nostrils but Dante only laughed at his irritation.

"It'll be one soon."

Sparda cut short to their exchange, sending two great orbs of molten flames their way, forcing the twins to snap demon wings out and leap once more. Dante rushed straight for their father, a flurry of bullets leading the way, while Vergil zoomed towards another higher sphere, flipped on himself as its gravity caught him. His amulet thumped against his chest with the flip, then he was off again, flying down to come from above, Red Queen alight with bright flames. His brother exchanged a few blows with the Devil Sword before allowing it to flick out of existence.

Vergil’s heart tightened as he gripped time and space hard, throwing everything he had left into the sudden freeze and transporting himself closer to Sparda. His amulet’s chain seemed to dig into his neck, a reassuring reminder of his family’s love and their greatest strength--each other. And as he lifted Red Queen, he remembered everything the heirloom had meant to him--all he had endured to keep it, and how even the fractions of his soul had recognized and submitted to it.

Sparda had given this amulet to Eva. He had entrusted the key to the demon world to his human love. Surely it must have meant a lot to him, too. What if he, too, recognized it? If there was a chance, even the tiniest of slivers…

Vergil’s hand reached for the amulet and he snapped it off his neck. He never swung Red Queen, instead snapping his wings to stop his momentum in front of Sparda and using the slip of seconds Dante had bought to wrap his twin’s half of the amulet around their father’s hand, twisting it so it wouldn’t fall easily then clasping the sludge-covered claws around it. Sparda pulled at Vergil’s time bubble, wrenching control away as his son looked up, meeting flaming eyes.

“Father, please--”

The greatsword slid through Vergil’s chest, serrated edge dripping with black sludge and blood as it burst on the other side. Fire spread through him, coursing inside Vergil at lightning-speed, a burning white agony evaporating the usual cool dampening of his healing. The impact lifted him, then Vergil slid down the blade, over the jagged edge, to rest against the hilt. How strange, how distinctly he could feel its steel when everything else had fallen into a fog of agony, his own pain mixing with the acidic sensation of black sludge on his skin--of it crawling inside, corrupting him, seeking to undo him.

Dante called his name, the voice travelling miles to reach him, all fogged and unclear. Vergil had wasted their best chance over sentimentality. Dante had trusted him to finish the plan, to accept Sparda was too far gone, that he could never be saved. Yet even now, his father’s sword piercing him from end to end, Vergil couldn’t free himself of hope. Sparda reacted to the Devil Sword Dante. He _felt_ familiar, his demonic aura twisted yet a true echo of their youths. His soul had to be in there, somewhere through all the corruption. If only he could touch it, separate it from the rest…

Vergil’s fingers twitched, and he reached for Sparda’s wrist, wrapping fingers over black goo and cracked armour. He let his mind slip away from the world, plunging what little consciousness he had left into himself and Sparda, linked by the destructive sludge etched into their very beings. One and the same, but Vergil had washed the corruption embedded into him out of his body, had healed himself through the Qliphoth and even pieced other stranded parts of his soul back into the whole.

They did not have a fruit of untold power to heal their father. Mundus’s corruption constrained his soul, a thick web digging into it, encasing him as surely as Nelo Angelo’s armour had trapped Vergil. But even without healing… perhaps Vergil could at least free him. His fingers tightened and his mind sought the inner edge he’d gained from the Yamato, his last chance. Fighting pain and fatigue, Vergil sliced through the webs holding Sparda, cutting threads of black sludge and pulling upon the soul beneath. Green crystals emerged under Vergil’s fingers as he tugged, sweat streaming down his forehead and neck and arms, every desperate sliver of soul freed a hard-fought gain. He could feel it, under all the corruption, the thick mix of his father’s power and love he’d known all his life.

Sparda’s wings faltered, their buzzing stopped for an instant as they fell towards the closest, large sphere. Vergil’s feet hit the ground as the greatsword lowered, his knees giving in immediately from the sudden effort. Sparda’s blade would have sliced upward through him, but Dante smashed his flaming staff down on their father’s hand, shattering the bug armour and bones beneath. He caught the greatsword as it fell, pulling it out of Vergil in one fluid movement, spinning it on itself as he switched his grip on it and slammed it into Sparda’s chest.

“Welcome to the family stabbing tradition, pops.”

Cool energy flowed through Vergil, fixing the worst of his wounds as he hit the net, hands gripping the red threads separating him from another sludge bath. His brain swam through a thick fog, but he clung to the brief sensation of Sparda’s love, the proof he’d been right, that somewhere in there…

“Dante…”

Waves upon waves of power washed out of his brother, and Vergil could scarcely understand where he’d found the strength. They’d both neared their limits moments ago, and yet nothing could have matched the demonic fire swirling within Dante as he kicked Sparda and sent him stumbling farther away, sword in his chest.

“It’s not him, Vergil. He vanished decades ago and left us behind.” Dante conjured the Devil Sword, giving it a quick twirl as he stalked after Sparda, boots firm on the uneven ground. “But we have each other, and Nero’s counting on us.”

“There is always something left, Dante. He’s… I felt him.”

This time, Dante paused. Vergil allowed himself two slow breaths as his chest closed up, then lumbered back to his feet, half-stumbling to his brother. His legs trembled, struggling to keep him standing, but Dante caught him without hesitation.

“Vergil…”

“One chance, Dante. Just one.”

Sparda had caught his footing, but while he wrapped a hand over the hilt near his chest, he didn’t pull the greatsword out. He stared at the two of them, the flames in his eyes dimmed to a confused ember. The amulet half around his wrist glinted red. If Vergil did not try, the guilt and doubts would haunt him for the remainder of his days.

Perhaps Dante understood that. A rough chuckle escaped him then he ruffled Vergil’s hair. “You were always too stubborn for your own good.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Vergil’s strength was slowly returning, but Sparda recovered along with him, shaking his head as if to clear inner confusion. He pulled the greatsword out as Dante slid out from under Vergil, turning his blazing staff in a three-part lightning rod with a flick of his wrist. He gave it a few quick twirls and the dancing electricity cast a purple light on his smirk as he slid one foot backwards and fell into a fighting stance.

Dante threw himself into the battle with almost worrying gleeful abandon. The lightning linking his three parts stretched and yanked back with every swing, crackling as it hit Sparda or his greatsword. Sparks showered Dante with every clash, sending his hair flying, and a laugh bubbled from him as he parried and dodged all of Sparda’s attacks.

“C’mon, pops, you can do better than that!” He twirled the staff, then flung it at the greatsword, grinning as the three branches wrapped themselves around briefly. His hands free, Dante summoned the Devil Sword--only for a second, only long enough for Sparda’s attention to snap to it, then stare in blank confusion as it vanished. As he blinked, Dante grabbed the still-spinning King Cerberus, freed the staff, and wrapped one strand of lightning around Sparda’s ankle. “How about a little visit to your _other_ son?”

Vergil startled as Dante pulled hard on the staff and sent Sparda flying right at him. Hard skin slammed into him, knocking the breath out of him and sending both flying off the sphere, but he clamped his arms around Sparda, holding onto him with all the strength he had left as he sank back into himself. Vergil found his internal edge easily, as if it rose up to meet him, hungry for more.

Happy to oblige, Vergil grasped at the strands of corruption woven through Sparda, a tight net across his soul, and sliced them. Green crystals crawled over his fingers as he undid Mundus’s work. It resisted him, embedded deep within Sparda, stronger than his meagre, quickly diminishing powers. Vergil dug his fingers into his father’s cracked armour, nails turning to claws as he reached deeper, calling upon every sliver of power available. He couldn’t fail, couldn’t let their father bond to this fate as he had been. He refused to let go, to give up in the face of Mundus’s powers. Vergil slammed his strength against the corruption, shredding everything he could, pulling and yanking on Sparda’s soul. Inch by inch, removing what he could.

Powerful arms separated him from Sparda, pulling them apart. Vergil blinked, the world returning into focus as he landed on his back, on a small sphere far below their original fighting grounds. The crystalline substance had crawled up his arms and all the way to his shoulders, but black sludge had slid under it. His entire body buzzed, numbed and distant, and Vergil’s thoughts crawled through thick fog. His gaze found Dante, crouched by his side, holding him by the shoulders. His lips moved, but Vergil heard nothing at first, his skull vibrating from exertion. He felt empty.

Sparda laid over the sphere’s tight net a few feet away, buried under the same crystals that wrapped around Vergil’s arms.

Unmoving.

One last chance and it hadn’t been enough. Vergil leaned into Dante’s hold, fighting the mounting despair, trying to find his focus again. They’d known this could happen. Dante had tried to prepare him for just that. They had come for Nero, not Sparda, and his son still needed them. They had to move, even if every inch of Vergil shook from exhaustion. He shouldn’t have tried, shouldn’t have risked everything on a fool’s errand, not when Nero might pay for his mistake. Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, anger at his own foolishness rising like a wave.

The crystal structures on Sparda and him shattered with a pure, clear sound, a thousand tiny shards flying, leaving small cuts across his cheeks and arms. He didn’t care. His eyes had flown open, and when Sparda twitched and rolled over, he and Dante both scrambled forward.

Great gaps had replaced the holes filled with sludge, leaving behind a body cracked and sliced a thousand times over, whole chunks of armour missing and revealing vulnerable flesh. The tip of one of his horns fell as he struggled to sit up, only for his energy to fail him. Dante’s power pulsed into a burst of speed, and he caught Sparda before he hit the ground again, holding him half-upright.

“My boys…”

Demonic power distorted the voice yet it couldn’t erase the softness in it. Knots tied up Vergil’s insides, lining everything from his stomach to his throat. He was here. Sparda was here, as himself. Joy coursed through him, met in equal force by the sadness on its heels. None of Sparda’s wounds were healing and the rattling in each of his breaths betrayed his weakness. Vergil had pulled him out, but it would kill him.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered. “I failed you.”

He had failed him now, when no one but Vergil could have saved him. But he had failed him time and again through the decades, too, undoing his work at the Temen-ni-gru, submitting to Mundus, fighting his own twin over and over. He had strayed so often he could scarcely meet his father’s gaze. Long dark fingers touched his knees and squeezed.

“No, Vergil. I failed you.” Another long, shaky breath. A rare smile curved Sparda’s lips. “You’re so old now…”

“Forty-three and counting, dad, no thanks to you.” Dante set him down, the care in his movement clashing with the anger in his voice. He’d plastered his most aggressive smile on, his casual tone as much a mask as Vergil’s stone face. “Now if you don’t mind, we got Vergil’s boy to save, too.”

“Ah.”

Sparda’s gaze flicked up as he studied Dante, and recognition spread through Vergil at the soft ‘Ah’, the subtle buffer for his thoughts he himself had so often used. Such a small word, an insignificant habit, truly, and yet it hurt to see his own patterns reflected in his father. Vergil’s hands tightened into fists, grief searing through him.

“I understand, Dante. I’m sorry for everything.”

Dante’s smile wavered for a moment, washed by sadness, but he locked it back into place within a second.

“I have… a grandson. What a blessing.” Sparda closed his eyes, golden flames hidden for a time as he absorbed the information, his too-rare smile returning briefly.

“Yeah, well, Nero’s in a little spot of trouble right now.” The Devil Sword Dante materialized, tip lodged into the red net of the ground, allowing Dante to lean one elbow on it. “Flying in blind’s fun and all, but since you’re back with us, we could use any tips you got.”

“Ah…” Sparda moved a trembling hand to his chest, where the wound inflicted by the greatsword ran deep. “I seem to have caused great pain… In trying to escape this place before my time, I injured the Guardian. Mundus killed them and he controls the Black Basin, now. But with… with sufficient power, it can be destroyed. Dante. Vergil.” His body shimmered as if emitting intense heat, then motes of golden and purple lights crawled across it, floating up. “My beautiful sons. I submit to you and grant you my power.”

The light grew blinding, forcing Vergil and Dante to protect their eyes as Sparda’s body disintegrated into light, each motes gathering above it, spinning around a thin rod-like axis. They clung to each other, slowly coalescing into a long handle, several balls clumping at its end. A great wave of power pulsed out, but it did not simply pass through Vergil, instead sinking into every muscle and fiber of his being, reinvigorating him, washing all traces of exhaustion and pain away, leaving him clear-headed and bursting with renewed strength. He exhaled at the sudden surge of power, so exquisite and familiar, embedded with Sparda’s very essence and an indescriptible sense of pride. Vergil pressed his lips into a thin line, his chest swelling with his father’s undeniable love.

He looked back at Dante as his twin clasped fingers around a long warhammer, its head embossed like two downturned horns, its shaft the same light-catching darkness as Sparda’s body. A reddish light coursed around it as Dante gave it a spin, testing its weight, the smiling mask replaced by an expression more solemn than Vergil had ever seen on his twin. Dante moved through the motions of several great swipes, ending with a great smash down. When the warhammer hit the net, a dark purple ghost briefly shimmered into existence above it, then a shockwave of power spread far and wide, leaving great fissures in the red strands and rising spikes of sludge in three axis out of the centre. Dante left the head on the ground and set his palm on top of the shaft’s end.

“Dad…” His voice trailed off for a moment and he looked at the space where once Sparda’s body had rested. “Naps are the best. Enjoy yours, it’s been a long time coming.”

He paused, silent--mourning. Vergil edged closer and set his hand on top of Dante’s. Even with his twin’s palm in between, he could feel the power pulsing out of the warhammer--the same that now coursed through him. They shared the silence for a few more seconds, then Dante hefted the warhammer on his shoulder, smile returning of its own volition.

“What d’ya think, Vergil? We got another of our father’s mess to clean. Time to settle this?”

Vergil could only offer a small nod. He did not trust his voice to remain as steady as Dante’s, whose resentment at Sparda reminded him of Nero’s own anger. Sparda had vanished on them when they needed him the most, leaving Dante to deal with most of the fallout--from Vergil’s chosen path to Mundus’s assault. Vergil couldn’t summon the same anger, not when he’d left Nero alone, too. They had both been trapped in Hell, father and son.

Sparda would never have his second chance, but Vergil had found his. He would not waste it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please no one kill me I have mountains of chocolate prepared for y'all. ;A;
> 
> Side note but anyone remembers in Chapter 12 when Vergil uses the Yamato to stab Trish's leg and take out the sludge there? Yeah :] This is essentially it.
> 
> I have also completed the draft this sunday, so the total chapter numbers (48) is final.


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